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WHO WOULD BE FREE 









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WHO WOULD BE FREE 


BY 

MARIAN SPITZER 

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Hereditary bondsmen! Know ye not 

Who would be free , themselves must strike the blow? 

—Byron. 



BONI and LIVERIGHT 

Publishers :: :: New York 

1924 








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Copyright, 1924, by 
Boni & Liveright, Inc. 


Printed in the United States of America 


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To H. T 


WHO IS, ANYWAY, MY SEVEREST CRITIC 








CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Book I. 9 

Book II ...199 




























































































s 





I 


BOOK I 

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not 

Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow? 

—Byron. 


I 

) 


\ 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


CHAPTER I 

(K 1 

You have here declared your belief in the Almighty 
and this Temple is Mount Sinai. Are you prepared to 
cling to the living God? 

We gladly declare our trust in Divine Providence. 
May it grow with our growth and strengthen with our 
strength. 

Eleanor Hoffman murmured the words of her decla¬ 
ration in unison with the twenty-eight other girls and boys 
of the confirmation class. To the congregation of the 
Central Park Synagogue, foregathered to witness its 
young being formally entered into the fold, the words 
were plainly audible, spoken with a commendable fervor. 
Eleanor Hoffman, standing on the holy altar, giving her¬ 
self to God, somehow couldn’t hear what she was say¬ 
ing. She was nervous, of course. Who wouldn’t be, 
with the Floral Offering? So important, too; the most 
important part of the whole service, and almost the last 
thing on the program. 

Was she sure of the words? She went over them hur¬ 
riedly in her mind. Her turn was coming soon. As 
soon as these endless questions and answers were over. 
Eleanor had had no idea it would be like this. At re¬ 
hearsals it had all seemed so simple and easy, and quick. 
This dragged so. Most of the kids were scared stiff, but 

ii 


12 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


they said their pieces pretty well at that. She’d only half 
listened, though. She had been saying the Floral Offer¬ 
ing over to herself for hours, it seemed. Lucky thing 
it was in verse form. So much easier to remember that 
way. It wasn’t bad either. Its rhyme and meter were 
correct which was more than you could say for last year’s 
Floral Offering, when Therese Landauer had it. Well, 
Therese was stupid. She’d only got it because her father 
had given a lot of money to the temple. 

This was different. Dr. Hirschberg, who was a dear 
if you only understood him, had said emphatically at 
the beginning of the term, that the Floral Offering and 
the Closing Prayer would go to those girls who earned 
them. That was his way of letting them know right 
at the beginning that he would play no favorites. It 
would be hard for him to steer away from trouble, 
though, she had decided at the time. The class had 
an unusual number of important girls in it. Or rather, 
girls with important families. There was Claire Rubin, 
for instance, whose father was on the Board of Trus¬ 
tees. And Helen Adler, whose aunt, Miss Isabelle 
Adler, was the principle of the Central Park Synagogue 
Sunday School. And Beatrice Kirchberg, whose grand¬ 
father had only recently given several thousand dollars 
toward the mortgage fund. Every one of them wanted 
the Floral Offering, and everyone felt pretty sure of 
getting it. 

But Dr. Hirschberg had let them know in the be¬ 
ginning that only merit would win. Probably he knew 
that if he gave it to one of those three he’d make 
worse enemies of the other two than he would if he 
gave it to someone outside altogether. And if it were 
really a question of merit, there wasn’t a chance for 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


13 


Claire or Helen or Beatrice. The first two were pretty 
stupid, and Beatrice, who was intelligent enough, had an 
impediment in her speech. 

Eleanor had made up her mind in the very beginning 
that she would get the Floral Offering. There wasn’t 
anyone in the class who could recite any better than she 
could, except maybe Fay Wallberg, and Fay had con¬ 
fided her intention of going after the Closing Prayer. 

“It’s the very last thing on the program,” Fay had 
said, “and they’ll remember it the longest. The Floral 
Offering is good, and looks more stunning, but it comes 
before the sermon, and they’ll forget it. You go after 
that, Elly, and I’ll cop off the Closing Prayer.” She 
had copped it off, too, and now she was standing next 
to Eleanor, on the red carpeted platform, turned toward 
the Ark, and speaking her rejoinders in the lovely, thrill¬ 
ing voice for which she was noted. 

Eleanor wondered, quite without malice, whether Fay 
had taken elocution lessons for this part of the service, 
too. She had studied her Closing Prayer with Mr. Ash, 
who when he wasn’t teaching in the Sunday School, was 
head of the Oral English Department at Nathan Hale 
High School. Fay had all kinds of beauty, and she 
was clever, too. She was going on the stage some day, 
although her family was throwing fits at the very idea. 

She had a kind of actressy manner, and did her Clos¬ 
ing Prayer in a very dramatic fashion. Eleanor couldn’t 
hope to compete with her on that score, so she decided 
to play the opposite extreme. Very simple. No fire¬ 
works or bombast. There was a certain quality she 
could get into her voice that subtly suggested whiteness, 
purity. It was more in keeping with the dresses and the 
flowers and the occasion. She wondered how she’d do it. 



14 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


She must do well. Everyone expected her to. Her 
mother, when she had kissed her good-by at the temple 
gates earlier in the morning, had said, with tears in her 
eyes: 

“I know you’ll do me proud, darling.” And her sister, 
Muriel, who was standing on the same altar, offering 
those same declarations to God, had laughed. 

“Of course, she’ll do you proud. For the honor of the 
family. It wouldn’t do to have two like me in one 
household.” Muriel was a good kid, she never minded 
what honors anybody else got. So long as she didn’t 
have to work hard for them herself. She had said her 
piece at the very beginning of the ceremony, so her nerv¬ 
ous tension, if there’d been any for her, was now over. 
Not that Muriel ever got nervous about anything. Funny, 
how unlike they were and still how well they got along 
together. For sisters it was wonderful. Everybody 
marvelled at it. Most sisters fought so. But the Hoff¬ 
mans never had. From the time they were babies they 
had done everything together, even though Eleanor was 
a year, almost to the day, older than Muriel. Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man had felt it would be awfully nice for them to grow 
up together and do everything at the same time. So she 
had kept Eleanor out of school until Muriel was old 
enough to start, and they had gone along side by side 
ever since. It was nice. They both liked it. Eleanor 
knew that Muriel, from the far side of the altar, was wait¬ 
ing almost as anxiously for the Floral Offering as she 
was. Would it never come? 


2 

There has been instilled into you the vital difference 
between right and wrong, the obligations to your parents 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


15 


and your jellowmen. “See now I set before you this day 
life and good, death and evil” Will you choose the 
good? 

We solemnly promise to give heed to every duty that 
meets us and ever to listen to the still small voice of 
conscience—the voice of God within us; as expressed in 
these words of Scripture—“He hath told thee, O man, 
what is good and what does the Lord thy God require of 
thee, only to do justly and to love mercy and to walk 
humbly with thy God” 

They had rehearsed this question and answer prob¬ 
ably two dozen times. It was rather long, and the boys 
and girls hadn’t memorized it very well. Dr. Hirschberg 
had made them go over it and over it until he was sure 
they had it right. Yet not until this moment had its 
full meaning obtruded itself upon Eleanor’s conscious¬ 
ness. Rather a large order. It couldn’t be quite that 
simple to distinguish between right and wrong, good and 
evil. If it really were there’d be no need for religion at 
all. 

“Life and good, death and evil.” It wasn’t always like 
that, either, Eleanor felt sure. People often did bad 
things and got away with them. And how many times, 
that she actually knew of, were people punished when 
they hadn’t done anything wrong. Of course, there was 
always an answer for that. “The Lord chasteneth the 
child he loves.” And others. “The ways of the Lord 
are past finding out.” That was what her mother always 
said when she asked embarrassing questions. 

But there was more to it than that, and she wasn’t 
altogether satisfied with the things she’d been told all 
along and particularly since Miss Blaine, the Vocational 
guide at Wadleigh High School, had given her The 



16 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Way of All Flesh to read. Miss Blaine, who was in¬ 
terested in Eleanor, was sorry later that she’d let her 
have the book. It was pretty dangerous stuff for fifteen 
year olds, especially fifteen year olds who were trying 
to think. They would likely bolt the book and swallow 
it whole. 

And it wasn’t, Eleanor confessed to herself, the most 
soothing reading for a person on the verge of confirma¬ 
tion into the Jewish faith, especially when that person 
has come to be a little uncertain about the whole thing 
anyway. She almost wished she hadn’t read it. Perhaps 
it was The Way of All Flesh that was cheating her out 
of the spiritual exaltation she had hoped and expected 
to experience on confirmation day. It most cer¬ 
tainly was something. Maybe it was Ted Levine. Some 
of the things he had said to her in the country last sum¬ 
mer had come back to her with amazing clarity during 
the past few days. It had started when she had found 
him in the summer house reading a volume of Robert 
Ingersoll. Ted was an awful show-off, of course, and his 
atheism was mostly pose. Eleanor realized that. Yet 
that day in the summer house, when they’d got to arguing 
on the subject, he had dropped most of his mannerisms. 
He seemed really sincere. 

“You can’t believe all that bunk, Elly,” he had flung 
out at length. “You can’t. You’re too intelligent.” And 
he had given her one of his Ingersoll books to read, and 
it had seemed quite convincing. She never finished it, 
though, because her mother found it in her room and 
made her give it back. She didn’t want any of this 
atheistic nonsense to get into Elly’s head. It was bad 
business. 

Not that Eleanor had turned away from God. Oh, 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


17 


no. She reassured herself vehemently. But things 
were rather mixed up in her mind, and the confirmation 
service wasn’t thrilling her the way she wanted it to. 
Maybe when she got to her own part the feeling of 
exaltation would come. She looked down at her bouquet 
to see if the little square of paper with the words of her 
poem typewritten on it was securely fastened to the 
stalks. Yes, it was all right. She was quite safe. Even 
if she did forget the words she could read them and no 
one would know the difference. Her flowers would be 
right on top, and she would be looking down, anyway. 
Oh, if it were only over! 


3 

You have been instructed in the principles of the 
Jewish religion transmitted from our past ancestry and 
enriched with the riper truths of later ages. Are you 
prepared to treasure its spiritual message, to teach it 
by living it, to make sacrifice that its cause may prevail, 
and faithfully to hand it down to coming generations? 

We accept the faith of Israel as did our fathers at 
Mount Sinai. We pray that it may never depart from 
us and we will strive so to live as to be worthy to become 
a kingdom of priests and a holy people . 

Funny how you never paid any attention to these 
things when you said them over and over again for days 
at a time. That meant an awful lot, and it was a terrible 
responsibility. It was like the marriage ceremony, with 
its “until death us do part.” Elly had been to a wedding 
not long ago and the marriage lines had frightened her. 
They were so terribly permanent. Even hearing them 
said, she felt as though some heavy weight had been 
placed suddenly upon her heart. And now this. Here 



18 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


she was, standing up before a thousand or more people, 
on the altar of God Himself, pledging herself with solemn 
words to do something that might be impossible. It 
wasn’t fair. You shouldn’t have to commit yourself 
that way, if you weren’t sure. It would be much better 
to study the confirmation service carefully and then get 
a chance to decide whether you were prepared to live 
according to its tenets. Or confirmation should not take 
place until you were grown up. Twenty-one, say. By 
that time, you’d have had a chance to figure things out. 
That is, if you were the figuring kind. She wondered 
whether the others were frightened at all by the promises 
they were so fervently making. Probably not. One or 
two, perhaps, but not more. Confirmation should be a 
voluntary thing, she concluded. Of course, you didn’t 
have to be confirmed. There was no law about it. But 
it was a pretty arbitrary thing actually. You joined the 
class when you were fourteen, you spent a year learning 
the significance of the occasion, and you were confirmed. 
You could back out at the last minute, but it would be 
just about as scandalous and incredible as a bride saying, 
“I don’t” instead of “I do.” Or a nun running away from 
the convent just before she took her final vows. It had 
been done, of course. But the penalty was terrific. What 
would her mother do if she were to stand on the altar, 
and instead of reciting her poem, simply say: 

“I can’t do this, because I’m not sure I want to be 
confirmed. I’d rather wait a little while until everything 
is settled in my mind.” Her brain stopped. She couldn’t 
even summon up a picture of what would follow. Of 
course, she had no intention of doing it. But she did 
wish that she hadn’t read The Way of All Flesh, at 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


19 


least not until after confirmation. It was spoiling the 
day for her. When would they come to her! 

When they did come to her it took a kick on the back 
of her chair from Alvin Wienberg, who sat behind her, 
to make her get up. The organ began to play very 
softly, and the girls filed slowly down the platform bank¬ 
ing their white sweetpeas on the altar. 

Last of all came Eleanor, placing her bouquet on top 
of all the others, with its little typewritten verses look¬ 
ing straight up at her. Now she wasn’t nervous at all. 
She was quite calm, and acutely aware of everything 
around her. The sweetpeas did look better. Dr. Hirsch- 
berg had wanted them to go out into the country and 
pick daisies. It was so much more appropriate to the 
occasion, he said. But the girls rebelled. They had too 
much to do the day before confirmation to waste time 
going down to the country. There were last minute fit¬ 
tings and hair curlings and manicures to be attended to. 
And arrangements for parties, and dozens of other un¬ 
avoidable things. They would get sweetpeas from a 
neighboring florist. Dr. Hirschberg, who recognized de¬ 
feat when he met it, bowed to the inevitable. Sweetpeas 
it was. And Eleanor was glad. They looked purer and 
sweeter than daisies. Daisies had yellow centers, and 
confirmation was pure white. But she must begin. Her 
mother was looking up at her from the center of the 
second row, staring intently into her face, waiting for 
her to begin. She began, hardly recognizing her own 
voice which seemed to come from somebody else. She 
bent her eyes to the flowers, then looked straight out to 
the audience ... no, it was a congregation . . . why 
did she always think of it as an audience? and spoke: 



20 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“We come before Thee ’neath this temple dome, 

Oh, God, our Father on this festal day, 

To homage do unto Thy law divine 

And blossoms sweet upon Thine altar lay.” 

And so on for four verses. It would be all over in a 
moment. She hadn’t looked once at the paper before 
her, and now she had reached the end of the last quatrain. 
There was a summing up couplet. She felt rather proud 
of that couplet. It gave distinction to the poem. She 
raised her eyes for a fleeting instant, paused perceptibly, 
and concluded: 

“Under Thy will Oh God, thus we shall trend 
Striving to earn Thy favor to the end.” 

Another tiny pause, an inclination of her head, to let 
them know it was over. Utter silence for a moment, 
then a buzz, faint at first but increasing in volume. Like 
a swarm of bees suddenly let loose. In the instant be¬ 
fore she turned to go back to her seat, there was a flash 
of a dozen heads turned toward her mother in the second 
row, nodding, smiling, almost applauding. She had been 
all right, then. That was a relief. Thank goodness it 
was over. 

Back in her seat Fay Wallberg squeezed her hand. 
“You were wonderful,” she said. “I hope I’ll do as well. 
Listen to them, they’re crazy about you.” It was true. 
The people were still turning to each other and buzzing 
with approval. Then the crash of the organ as the choir 
burst into song drowned out all other sound. 

The sermon was mercifully short. It was almost ex¬ 
actly like all the other confirmation sermons Eleanor had 
ever heard. All about the pure white blossoms and the 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


21 


beginning of pure white lives. And carrying the spirit 
of Judaism out into the world, and doing right to others 
and respecting one's parents. There must be quite a 
tendency toward disrespecting one's parents, Eleanor 
thought, or they wouldn’t harp on it so. How much 
this was like The Way of All Flesh. All religions were 
pretty much alike, apparently, except for details of cere¬ 
monial. She found herself suddenly wondering about 
dinner. She was hungry. At breakfast she had been too 
excited to eat, and the services were longer than she 
expected. It must be nearly one o’clock. She wouldn’t 
change places with Fay for anything in the world. Fay 
was getting ready to go up. Now, at last. The Closing 
Prayer was started. How beautifully she recited. Like 
a professional. She knew just when to pause most effec¬ 
tively, and how to shade off her lovely voice. Mr. Ash 
had taught her that. The audience ... no, the congre¬ 
gation . . . was spellbound, a hush had fallen over it. 
At length the end came. A long pause, and then an almost 
inaudible “amen.” Fay walked slowly back to her place. 
The buzz again, mounting in one or two places to a sob. 
Now Eleanor squeezed Fay’s hand. “You were perfect,” 
she said. 

“Oh, gee,” whispered Fay, “we were the best of all.” 

Another blank space. Then suddenly a few seats from 
her one lone girl stood up. People were standing up 
here and there throughout the temple. Dr. Rosenthal, 
the Cantor, was reading in Hebrew. Oh, yes, the prayer 
for the dead. Poor little Jeannette Sachs. Her mother 
dead only a month, and she had to go through with this 
whole trying thing. They had been so close, too. It 
had been Mrs. Sachs’s last wish for Jeannette to go on 
with the confirmation anyway. And now she was stand- 



22 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


ing there silently sobbing, twisting her handkerchief and 
making futile little dabs at her eyes. It was cruel. How 
could you be happy when someone else was so miser¬ 
able? 

More music. More Hebrew. How hungry she was. 
She could eat a house. And they’d have to stand around 
at least half an hour being congratulated. Ah! Now 
the benediction. They filed slowly to the back of the 
platform, stopped for a moment before Dr. Hirschberg, 
to receive his blessing. He muttered something in He¬ 
brew and then in English. They were equally unin¬ 
telligible. How heavy his hands were on her head. No 
wonder he had told them not to wear hair ribbons. He’d 
rumple them all to pieces. 

Off the platform. Up the center aisle. It was all over 
at last. What a relief! Now the double line broke up 
and people began to swarm about, kissing, congratulating. 
Her mother, with an arm around each of her girls, sob¬ 
bing quite loudly and without shame. 

“Oh, my darlings, you were wonderful.” And she 
kissed them both. Their father, less inclined to demon¬ 
stration, contented himself with patting them on the 
shoulder. 

“You did very well my dears, both of you.” Muriel 
laughed again. She was a good sport. 

“You’re so good to me,” she giggled, “putting me in the 
same class with Elly. You were great, kid. Much better 
than Fay. I swear! She was too theatrical. That’s 
what everybody says.” 

There was a great crowd waiting on the street outside. 
Uncles, aunts, cousins, friends. There must be hundreds. 
All talking and gesticulating together. Words came out 
and separated themselves from the babel. “Wonderful.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


23 


“Marvelous.” “Like an angel, the way she stood there.” 
“So simple and sweet.” 

It was awfully tiring, although gratifying. Finally a 
taxi came and took them away from the noise. Eleanor 
didn’t talk much during the ride home. Muriel chat¬ 
tered and laughed. She didn’t feel tired at all. Not a 
nerve in her system, that girl. Always jolly and good- 
natured. Nothing ever bothered her. Great disposi¬ 
tion. Not like Elly. You never could tell when she’d go 
off into a fit about something. Yet there was never any 
friction between them. It just goes to show what a little 
real training can do. Mrs. Hoffman had never let them 
quarrel. She had taught them that sisters must be kind 
to each other, and make little sacrifices. If you train 
your children right they’ll grow up right. “As the twig 
is bent.” What was that saying? 



CHAPTER II 


i 

There was a family dinner. The Hoffmans weren’t 
wealthy by any means, but they were comfortable. And 
confirmation was something that happened only once in 
a lifetime, so they were doing things right. And any¬ 
way, both girls being confirmed at the same time, weren’t 
they saving money? The girls were having a party for 
their own friends the following Monday night. But this 
day was the family’s day. There were thirty-two at the 
dinner table. All but four were of the immediate family. 
There had been some discussion as to the advisability 
of inviting any outsiders, but Mrs. Hoffman was adamant 
in her determination to have the Weinbergs and the 
Katzes. They were her best friends, closer to her by a 
great deal than any of her relatives. Either they would be 
present or there would be no party. 

Well, it was her party, really, not Elly’s or Muriel’s. 
She could have anyone she liked. Besides, it developed 
later, Henry Katz, who was a very talented song writer 
(it was his avocation—his vocation was real estate) had 
written new words to the tune of “The Rosary,” which 
he dedicated to Eleanor and Muriel. Aunt Rose, who 
had a really good voice, sang it after the speeches had 
been made. It was very clever, and yet moving. Aunt 
Rose sang it with real feeling. Henry Katz accompanied 
at the piano. He had a very sympathetic touch. 

24 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


25 


“As at the altar on this day 
You faced the dear ones whom you love, 

And in devotion you stood there to pray 
To him above, to Him above! 

You vowed to Him you’d keep sincere 
The ten commandments taught to you, 

Until before him you’d appear, 

You’d keep them well and true! 

Honor your parents and adore, 

Show them respect, show them your love, 

The Lord will then protect you evermore, 

You vowed you would, dear ones, to Him above!” 

The applause was tremendous. So loud, in fact, that 
no one but her father, sitting next to her, heard Eleanor 
sob as Aunt Rose sang the concluding lines. 

“What’s the trouble, my pet?” he asked her. Eleanor 
sobbed again in reply. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” she blurted out, and she 
got up blindly from the table and ran from the room. 
She locked herself in the bathroom and ruined a per¬ 
fectly good hand-embroidered show towel with her tears. 
Her mother followed her, but Eleanor refused to let her 
in, and Mrs. Hoffman returned to the dining room, flushed 
but not altogether displeased. 

“She’s so high strung,” Mrs. Hoffman explained. “Just 
like me. The song made her feel bad. It’ll do her good 
to have a cry.” 

“Too hysterical altogether,” grumbled Mr. Hoffman. 
“Young girls have no business to be that way. Go look 
after your sister, youngster,” turning to Muriel. She 
wasn’t crying. You could rely on her not to lose her 
head. 



26 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Eleanor was on the way out when Muriel reached the 
bathroom. 

“What’s the matter, kid?” Muriel asked. “That song 
get you? Don’t be a nut!” Elly laughed and cried to¬ 
gether. 

“I can’t help it, I guess. But my nerves were pretty 
nearly gone before that. And that parent stuff just fin¬ 
ished me. Why do they have to rub it in so? Make you 
feel like a criminal before you start! Does it hit you 
that way, too?” Muriel nodded. 

“Yes, kind of. But I don’t pay much attention to it. 
Come on now, your ice cream’ll be melted.” And arm in 
arm they returned to the dining room. 

There was a reception after dinner. Mrs. Hoffman 
hadn’t sent out any invitations, or put an announcement 
in the papers,—that was so vulgar—but she had told her 
friends that she would be home. People started coming 
at about three o’clock, and there was a steady stream of 
them all afternoon and all evening. 

“Come inside and see our presents,” she suggested to 
a group of girls, some of last year’s confirmants who had 
come in together. Talking and giggling, they left the 
living room, and went into the girls’ bedroom, where 
gifts of every description were piled on the twin beds, 
the white ivory dressing table, the chiffonier and the 
floor. 

“Just think,” said Eleanor breathlessly, “between us 
we’ve got five parasols already. And three pairs of 
silver shoe buckles.” 

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Muriel, “we can use the 
extra pair for sashes and belts. They have regular 
fasteners, like bar pins. You don’t have to sew them 
on.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


27 


The hundred and more gifts, ranging from the tiniest 
of perfume atomizers from Cousin Jennie Krauskopf, 
who was a widow and sold knitted underwear for a liv¬ 
ing, to a huge and violently decorated bedroom floor lamp 
from Great-uncle Charlie Dorf, who was a brother of 
Mrs. Hoffman’s mother, were separately examined and 
exclaimed over. There were dozens of pairs of silk stock¬ 
ings, and almost as many gloves. 

“What we’ll be able to save out of our allowance now,” 
said Muriel. “We ought to get rich quick. Won’t have 
to buy any gloves or stockings or underwear for years, 
if this keeps up. And there are lots of people we haven’t 
heard from yet.” 

Toward evening some of the boys came in. There was 
Irving Houseman and Malcolm Friedmann and Bertram 
Klein. H. Bertram Klein to be exact, but he didn’t use 
the H., which stood for Herman. Without these three 
boys no party of the younger Central Park Synagogue 
set was complete. They were the arbiters, and the planets 
around which the lesser stars revolved. If they came to 
see you, or walked home from Sunday School with you, 
you were safe. If not, your position was precarious. 
And they worked together. You had to merit the appro¬ 
bation of all three or it was unavailing. 

The Hoffman girls were favored of “The Triumph- 
irate,” as they called themselves. More than that, 
Eleanor enjoyed the particular favor of Irving House¬ 
man. Irving was a serious person. He didn’t care much 
for these frivolous girls, and Eleanor was serious too. 
They understood each other. She admired him very 
much. He wasn’t silly. She could talk to him about the 
More Important Things of Life without fear of being 
thought a highbrow. 



28 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Muriel couldn’t see it at all. She preferred Malcolm. 
He was a marvelous looking boy, tall, dark with a kind 
of smooth, creamy darkness. He had large warm brown 
eyes. And what dimples! Malcolm liked Muriel, too. 
A gay girl. You could always count on her to have a 
good time. She wasn’t moody. Eleanor was more in¬ 
tellectual, but that was just the trouble. Too darn high¬ 
brow for Malcolm. And Muriel was much prettier, too. 

There was some anxiety on the part of the girls about 
their party, which was to take place on the following 
Monday evening. It would be a week of parties. Fay 
Wallberg had Saturday, they had Monday, Hilda Adler 
had Wednesday and Dorothy Bloom had Thursday. It 
would be a great week. But Muriel was worried. Her 
mother had been getting obstreperous about Juliette 
Heller. 

“She wants to wish that little simp on us,” Muriel told 
the boys. “You know how she ruins every party. We 
told mother that we’d rather not have any party than 
have her. But Mrs. Heller’s such an old friend that 
mother’s afraid she’ll be mad. You know how those 
things always come up?” 

“Well,” said Bertram, weighing the situation, “prob’ly 
if you don’t say much about it, your mother’ll forget, 
and then you can get away with it.” 

“You don’t know mother,” sighed Elly. “She never 
forgets anything you want her to. And she’s been talk¬ 
ing about Lawrence Weinlander. His mother’s a friend 
of hers, too. But I positively won’t have him. He 
wears short pants. Imagine having a boy with short 
pants at the party. Can you hear everybody laughing 
at him? And at us, when they see him. I simply won’t 
stand for it. It’ll be too embarrassing. Why, a couple 



WHO WOULD BE EREE 


29 


of weeks ago we walked home from temple with them, 
and I had to walk in front with that little shrimp. And 
more people saw us. I was so fussed I nearly died. And 
a couple of days later in school Amy Koenig asked me 
who he was. She said she thought I never went out with 
boys in short pants. She wouldn’t believe me when I 
explained. It was disgusting. I simply will not have 
that little brat, and that’s all there is to it. I told 
mother he’d have a rotten time. That may get her to 
shut up. I hope so.” 

It was seven o’clock. They didn’t sit down to the 
table to eat, just passed around plates and sandwiches 
and things. There were too many people. Elly felt 
awfully tired. She wished she could go to bed. Or out 
for a long ride in the country. It was so hot. And 
people were arguing. Mrs. Ira Hermann had said she 
didn’t think it was right of Henry Katz to use “The 
Rosary” for the song he wrote. 

“It’s not that I’m so terribly religious,” Mrs. Hermann 
said, “but after all this is a Jewish holiday, and that 
song is all about kissing the Cross and so forth. Do you 
think it was exactly right of him? Out of all the songs 
in the world did he have to pick out that one? / don’t 
know.” 

“But he didn’t use the words. He only used the 
melody ’cause he could fit appropriate words to it,” Mrs. 
Hoffman defended Henry, who had departed with his 
wife. “I think it was very nice. Henry wouldn’t do 
anything wrong for the world. He’s the most upright, 
honorable man I know. I hope nobody’ll say anything 
to him about this. He’s so sensitive. You know those 
artistic people. It’s so easy to hurt their feelings.” 

Somewhere else in the room voices, indistinguishable 



30 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


from the crowd, but loud and emphatic, were discussing 
the propriety of girls as young as Eleanor and Muriel 
“‘going with boys.” 

“I think it’s a shame,” one voice declared. “If you 
let girls do these things when they’re so young what will 
there be left for them to do when they’re a little older? 
I don’t approve of this running around with fellows. It 
looks bad. And, anyway, they’ll get blase. I wouldn’t 
let any daughter of mine go with boys until she was at 
least eighteen.” 

“That’s foolish,” came the reply. “You can talk that 
way, ’cause you have no daughters of your own. If 
you had you’d sing a different tune, believe me. Besides, 
how’re you going to stop them? If you refuse to let them 
do it they’ll turn around and do it behind your back. 
And, believe me, I’d rather know what my girls are do¬ 
ing. You never can tell what trouble young folks’ll get 
into if their mothers don’t know what they’re up to. I 
think Mrs. Hoffman is very sensible to encourage the boys 
coming to the house. She doesn’t want Elly and Muriel 
to run around much outside. But to have them go to 
each other’s houses, that’s perfectly all right. You can’t 
go against human nature, you know. And girls are bound 
to like boys.” 


2 

Eleanor was worried. She hadn’t approached her 
mother yet on the subject of wearing her hair up at the 
parties. And it was essential that she wear her hair up. 
The leveling era of bobbed hair had not yet been in¬ 
augurated, and Elly’s hair was not considered one of her 
strong points. It was straight and fine, not exactly 
sparse, but by no means luxuriant. It grew thickly 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


31 


enough to her head, but the braid that hung down a few 
inches below her shoulders was inclined to be rather 
wispy. It was a funny color, too, Elly admitted, regard¬ 
ing it in her dressing table mirror. Red. But not the 
brilliant red that you could call Titian. (Henna had not 
come into vogue then, either.) Just a sort of cross be¬ 
tween yellow and red, the kind of hair that people called 
strawberry blond or sorrel. She wore it parted on the 
side, and clasped in the back with a tortoiseshell barrette, 
very simply, with no attempt to curl it. She had tried 
turning the wispy braid up into a flat rolled knot and it 
was surprising how much better it looked that way. She 
appeared to have much more hair. And it made her look 
at least eighteen. Which, being fifteen and on the verge 
of five parties, was a consummation devoutly to be wished. 
There would be so many older boys at the parties. Some 
of them would even be as old as twenty-one. And it was 
imperative that Elly’s hair should be up. She couldn’t 
have a good time otherwise. She and Fay Wallberg had 
worked out a plan, and Elly was waiting now for her 
mother to come in so that she might try it out. She 
heard Mrs. Hoffman’s footsteps in the hall, and quickly 
let down the negligible little braid. She gulped and took 
the plunge. 

“Mother,” she said, her voice filled with hesitancy, “I 
want to ask you something. Something important.” She 
stopped. 

“Well, what is it?” 

“Well, it’s about the parties. If Mrs. Wallberg lets 
Fay wear her hair up, will you let me wear mine up? 
Please, mom,” as her mother started to reply. “It means 
so much to me. You want me to have a good time, don’t 
you? And I can’t have a good time if you make me go 



32 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


with my hair down. Mrs. Wallberg said she would if 
you would.” Mrs. Hoffman cocked her head reflectively. 

“Well,” she said, “I don’t know. You know I don’t 
approve of young girls wearing their hair up. It makes 
them old before their time, and gets them blase. And 
if I let you do it this time you’ll be after me every time 
there’s another party. You’ll be sorry when you’re a 
few years older that you were in such a hurry to grow 
up. What difference does it make whether you wear it 
up or down? Everybody there knows your age, anyway, 
you can’t fool them. No, I don’t think you’d better, 
Eleanor. Besides, if I let you do it I’ll have to let Muriel 
do it, and that is out of the question. What would 
people say, two little girls like you, with your hair up? 
You’re too anxious to grow up. I don’t like it. In fact 
I’m sorry I ever let you start going with boys! That’s 
what put all these foolish notions into your head. When 
I was a girl there was no such thing. Young girls never 
asked their mothers to let them pretend to be grown up 
when they were only children. Why, if I’d asked my 
mother to let me do such a thing when I was fifteen 
years old she would’ve boxed my ears. We’re too lenient 
with our children nowadays.” 

Eleanor sighed. When her mother began one of these 
speeches it was hard to tell where she’d end. But she 
didn’t mind much, because that was the way Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man worked off steam. Usually at the end of a tirade 
like that she gave in. Her own vehemence wore her out. 
Eleanor said nothing, waiting for the stream of language 
to die down. There was no use saying anything now, 
because it would simply give her mother more material. 
Anything she said would be used against her. 

“I can’t imagine,” continued Mrs. Hoffman, “what the 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


33 


world is coming to. Fifteen years old and wants to wear 
her hair up! Absurd. Well, I J 11 call up Mrs. Wallberg 
and if she lets Fay do it, maybe,—Fm only saying maybe, 
you understand, I’ll let you do it too. But that’ll only 
be for this week. You can’t come trying to do it for every 
party after this. This week and that’s all. Never again 
until you’re seventeen. When you graduate from high 
school. That’ll be time enough.” She walked out of the 
room. Eleanor was jubilant. She had won her victory. 
As a matter of fact, she reflected, you could get anything 
out of mother if you only let her have her little spiel. 
She seemed to have a curious idea that by recording her 
objections to anything she didn’t approve of, she had 
met the problem. 

Eleanor told her sister about it later. Muriel only 
laughed at her for her pains. 

“What a fool you are, Elly,” she said. “If you had 
any sense you wouldn’t say anything about it. You 
know how mother always carries on. Why don’t you 
just shut up and do what you please? You can put your 
hair up after you get there. She’ll never know the dif¬ 
ference. That’s what I’m going to do. It’s so much 
simpler.” 

“No, it isn’t,” argued Eleanor. “It only seems simpler 
now. But it doesn’t get you anywhere. I don’t want to 
slip it over on her. Anyone could do that. I want to 
get her to give in. That’s making real progress, don’t 
you see?” 

Muriel grinned. 

“Oh, hell ” she said, “I see. You just want to do any¬ 
thing to make it harder. Well, not for me.” 

Mrs. Hoffman, passing the room at this point, pushed 
open the door with some violence. 



34 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Muriel,” she said, “how many times do I have to tell 
you not to swear. I can’t imagine where you pick up 
such language. Surely not from me or your father. God 
knows he’s the most particular man in the world about 
the language he uses before his family. Never a bad 
word. I should think you’d get tired of having me 
correct you.” The girls glanced swiftly at each other, 
only half suppressing the smiles that would come. 

“That’s right,” continued their mother, “laugh at me 
now. I’d like to know what good I am around here, 
anyway! When I try to do anything to bring up my 
daughters like ladies, they laugh at me. No respect! 
I don’t want any of your nonsense. Remember now,” 
turning to Elly, “I haven’t promised about your hair, 
and if you start any of your monkey business I won’t let 
you go to the parties at all. I’m going to get respect 
from my children or I’ll know the reason why!” 

The smiles subsided and the girls looked grave, but 
did not reply. Mrs. Hoffman, stopping a moment to 
straighten the toilet articles on the dressing table, left 
the room, slamming the door behind her. The girls 
looked at each other again. Elly shrugged. Muriel 
laughed. Still they said nothing. Silently they undressed 
and went to bed. 



CHAPTER III 


i 

The week of partying was over. It had been a week 
of unmitigated joy for Muriel and Eleanor. They were 
tired but triumphant. They had worn their hair up, 
and all the new boys who met them thought they were 
at least seventeen, or would have if they hadn’t known 
about the girls just being confirmed. 

Muriel had made three dates with new ones, and 
Malcolm was angry. 

“Don’t you think he has a nerve?” she asked Eleanor 
rhetorically as they undressed slowly after the last of 
the parties. It was nearly two o’clock, but they weren’t 
tired. “You’d think I was engaged to him or something.” 
Eleanor looked at her seriously. 

“Do you think you’ll ever marry Malcolm?” she in¬ 
quired earnestly. 

“Well, I don’t know,” Muriel said. “The way I feel 
about it now, I think I’d like to, when I’m about eight¬ 
een. But you never can tell about a thing like that. I 
might change my mind. Of course, he’s never said any¬ 
thing about getting married, but he’s awfully jealous. 
He tried to kiss me last night.” 

“Did you let him?” 

“No, I wanted to, but I was afraid. It’s all right in 
games, but I think if you let a boy kiss you just . . . 
well, just for no reason at all, he won’t have the same 
respect for you after that. Don’t you think so?” 

“Well, I don’t know. I suppose not. Mother always 
35 


36 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


says they won’t. But if you’re engaged I guess it’s dif¬ 
ferent. Irving asked me to be engaged to him. Secretly, 
of course. You know, to wait until he is able to support 
me. He only has five more years until he’s out of law 
school, and he says he could surely make enough to get 
married on after he was out a year.” 

Muriel, snapping an elastic around the end of her 
long, thick braid of chestnut hair, rolled into bed. 

“Gee,” she said, “that’d make you awfully old be¬ 
fore you got married. Nearly twenty-one. I wouldn’t 
wait that long for anyone. I want to be married before 
I’m nineteen. Turn out the light, will you?” 

Eleanor switched off the light and pulled up the shade. 
The full moon, still high, shone in through the window. 
She sighed. 

“That’s not so long,” she said, “Irving’s got lots of 
brains. And he has the cutest eyes.” 

“Malcolm’s better looking though. Aren’t his dimples 
wonderful? He’s the best looking boy in the crowd, don’t 
you think so? And he’s a wonderful dancer.” 

“Urn.” 

“Gee, wouldn’t mother be furious if she knew what 
we were talking about. Don’t you suppose girls ever 
thought about boys when she was our age?” 

“I don’t know. She says she never did, but I think 
she just doesn’t remember.” 

“What else is there to think about, anyway?” Silence. 
Then, after a few minutes came Eleanor’s voice, hesi¬ 
tatingly: 

“Muriel.” 

“Yeah?” sleepily. 

“Do you believe in God?” 

“What?” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


37 


“Do you really, or do you think maybe Ted is right, 
that it's just a myth to fool people?” 

“Of course, I believe in God. How can you ask such 
a question! And just confirmed too. What’s the matter 
with you anyway? You’re getting kind of crazy lately. 
Ted is a nut, and he only talks that way to be different.” 

“Well, I know, but he says some awfully convincing 
things. He says . . .” 

“Say, listen, don’t start telling me what that nut says 
at this hour of the night. I’m sleepy, and we have to get 
to school in the morning.” Silence . . . The clock strikes 
two-thirty. 

“Elly, are you asleep?” 

“No.” 

“What do you think I ought to give Malcolm for his 
birthday? It’s next week.” 

“How much money have you got?” 

“Five dollars.” 

“You could get a half dozen hankerchiefs with his 
monogram embroidered on. Real linen. That would be 
nice.” 

“Not too personal?” 

“I don’t think so. It isn’t as if it were socks or some¬ 
thing intimate like that.” 

“Well, will you go downtown with me to look for some¬ 
thing?” 

“All right, want to go to-morrow? We could cut gym 
and history and go down early.” 

“Sure. I hate gym in such hot weather, anyway. It 
doesn’t really do you a bit of good. And study is a 
joke. That old fool Cass gives monologues through the 
whole period, anyway. She’s a little crazy, I think.” 

“A little? She ought to be in an asylum. Emily 



38 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Brent’s mother used to know her a long time ago, and 
she says she was always like that, even when she was 
young.” 

“How old do you think she is, about sixty?” 

“I don’t know. She looks a hundred.” 

“Emily says she was engaged to a man who was killed 
in the Spanish-American War.” 

“You mean the Civil War, don’t you?” 

“Looks more like it at that. I can’t help feeling sorry 
for her, though. Can you imagine her the victim of a 
blighted romance? It seems so ridiculous that anyone 
ever wanted to kiss her.” 

“Look.” Muriel thrust her hand from under her new 
pillow, and held up in the moonlight a little jeweler’s 
frox. “Malcolm’s buckles. Aren’t they lovely? I know 
it isn’t right to accept jewelry from a man unless you’re 
engaged to him, but you wouldn’t exactly call slipper 
buckles jewelry, would you?” 

“No-o-o, I guess not,” mused Eleanor. “Anyway, Mrs. 
Friedmann knows mother so well, it’s just as much her 
present as it is Male’s.” 

“It is not. He paid for them all himself. He told me 
so.” 

“Oh well, it’s all right, anyway.” 

“Male’s wonderful,” replacing the box under pillow. 
“I wish I were old enough to get married. Just think, 
wouldn’t it be great to have your own apartment, with 
no one to boss you around or tell you what to do and 
where to go.” 

“But wouldn’t you be afraid, though, at first?” 

“Yeah. Scared to death. What do you think exactly 
happens?” 

“I don’t know. Leona Lowenthal’s sister promised 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


33 


to tell her after she came back from her honeymoon, and 
then she wouldn’t. Said it was too sacred. Oh well, 
you’ll find out some day.” Silence . . . The clock ticks 
loudly, approaching three. 

“Which party did you like the best?” asked Muriel, 
her voice grown sleepier. 

“Fay’s, I think. Ours was pretty good, but you never 
have much fun at your own party. Too much responsi¬ 
bility.” 

“Yes,” sighed Muriel, “you’ve always got to be seeing 
that the others have a good time. But there’s one thing 
about your own party,—you can sit next to the boy you 
want. I had a good time at Fay’s, but that fresh little 
Beatrice Kohn flirted with Malcolm during supper, and 
tried to get him away from me. I don’t think she’s much 
good. She lets boys kiss her.” 

“Yes, I know. At Hilda’s I was talking to Harold 
Katz, and he asked me if I knew her. I said yes, and 
he said she’s s.m., isn’t she? That was a new one on me, 
so I asked him what he meant, and he said some musher. 
He said all the boys call her that. It’s a Delta Omega 
expression. Jack Lewison made it up.” 

“Oh, yes, she’s fierce. I went through that little alcove, 
you know near the bedroom, to get my handkerchief, and 
she was sitting on the couch with Walter Weil, with her 
arms around his neck. They were kissing when I went 
in and they were kissing when I came back. Regular 
soul kiss. I don’t think it gets a girl anything to let 
boys get fresh with her, do you? They don’t respect 
her.” 

“Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea to let just anyone 
kiss you who wants to. But if you’re sort of engaged I 



40 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


think it’s all right. I mean what’s the good of being 
engaged if you can’t have any fun?” 

“Do you think it would be all right to let Male kiss 
me?” 

“Yes. Don’t let mother know I said that. She’d kill 
me. But I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t. 
You’re crazy about him, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“And he’s crazy about you. Well, that makes it all 
right. Why don’t you get his fraternity pin? That 
would make you really engaged, even if you didn’t want 
to announce it.” Muriel giggled. 

“Can you imagine! Engaged at fourteen and a half.” 

“Well, Juliet was married at that age.” 

“Juliet who?” 

“Oh,” impatiently, “in Romeo and Juliet.” 

“Well, that was just a play. But I would like to get 
his pin. I’d like to wear it to school. Can you imagine 
the girls? I’d like to put one over on Geraldine Nuss- 
baum. She puts on so many airs because she’s got a 
measly little Delta Omega pin. That’s only a high 
school pin. If I came down with Male’s pin she’d throw 
a fit. I’ll get it all right. Where you going?” as Elly 
pulled the bed-light ribbon and stepped on the floor. 

“I want to show you something,” she answered. “I 
wasn’t going to, but I guess I will anyway. I promised 
Irving I wouldn’t let anyone know, but—that doesn’t mean 
your sister.” And from a spring locked drawer in her 
dressing table, she drew a little piece of black ribbon, 
upon which was pinned a diamond shaped fraternity pin, 
set in tiny pearls, with three Greek letters inscribed in 
gold across its black surface. She handed it silently to 
Muriel. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


41 


“Gee!” Muriel regarded it solemnly. “You’re a won¬ 
der. It’s awfully hard to get freshmen to part with 
’em. Oh, boy, if I get Malcolm’s, and we wear ’em to 
school together, won’t the girls be wild! It’s bad enough 
now that we’re the only ones in the gang who go with 
college boys—except Fay—but if we wear their frat pins 
that’ll be the last straw.” 

“Don’t say frat,” Eleanor rebuked her sister. “That’s 
so childish. Only the high school boys say frat. In 
college they say fraternity.” Taking the pin back from 
Muriel she looked at it for several moments, polished it 
assiduously on a corner of the sheet, and pinned it se¬ 
curely to a fold of her nightgown. 

“Irving’s wonderful,” she said drowsily. “So intellec¬ 
tual. Just think, he’s just seventeen and he’s finishing his 
first year in college. I bet he’ll make Phi Beta Kappa.” 

“Who cares?” asked Muriel, answering herself. “You 
do, I suppose. Not me, though. He’s too brainy for 
me. I don’t want any highbrows hanging around. Just 
give me someone with lots of ginger, and a good dancer, 
and good looking, like Malcolm. You can have all the 
brains. Gee, I’m sleepy. Good-night.” And with a 
prodigious yawn she turned over on her side, her hand 
under the pillow, her feet curled up under her. In a 
few minutes she was fast asleep. 

2 

Eleanor did not find sleep so quickly. There were so 
many things to wonder about even in the daytime when 
she was active and things were happening every minute, 
there was an undercurrent of wondering. And at night 
when the quiet and the darkness seemed to bring things 
out sharply in relief, the wondering was so intense that 



42 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


it actually hurt. The night was to her a photographer’s 
dark room. Impressions that she had caught fleetingly 
during the day were dipped into the fluid of silence and 
developed into definite prints. And always they made 
her wonder. Why? Why was everything? 

She had always been that way. From infancy, almost, 
she had wanted to know why. And why seemed the 
hardest thing to find out. Once, when she was five years 
old her mother had found her playing on the street with 
the janitress’s little boy. When her mother commanded 
her to stop she asked why. 

“Because I am your mother and I say you should,” 
Mrs. Hoffman had answered, slapping her smartly across 
the cheek. 

She had kept on wondering why she shouldn’t play 
with Freddie. He was so much fun to play with. But 
she never found out. She still wondered when it flashed 
across her mind out of the past. Probably because his 
mother was a janitress. But why shouldn’t you play 
with the child of a janitress if you wanted to? 

For a while Eleanor had tried talking to her father 
about these things she wondered about. He was sympa¬ 
thetic, but not satisfactory. She mustn’t try to solve the 
riddle of the universe, he told her soothingly. Others 
had tried it and they invariably became lunatics. Or 
socialists or atheists or something equally uncomfortable. 

“Don’t think about such things,” he said whenever she 
approached him tentatively. “Wiser heads than yours 
have lost their balance over just such thoughts. Don’t 
you worry. The world will go right on even if you don’t 
find out why.” So that was out. Muriel only grinned 
when she said anything to her, and flung out her laughing 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


43 


“who cares?” That was Muriel’s summing up of life, 
her answer to every question. 

Muriel, thought Eleanor, looking at her sleeping sister, 
was lucky. She was pretty, by far the prettier of the 
two, Eleanor decided for the hundredth time. Her hair 
was chestnut while Elly’s was that odd, indeterminate 
red, and it was thick and wavy. Elly’s was thoroughly 
straight and there wasn’t a great deal of it. Muriel had 
a brilliant complexion. Her cheeks were so red that some 
malicious woman in the country last summer actually had 
insinuated that she used rouge. (Mrs. Hoffman had had 
quite a row with her at the time.) Their noses and 
mouths were quite the same, but Eleanor’s face was no¬ 
ticeably thinner. They both had hazel eyes. Well, any¬ 
way,” Eleanor said to herself, “my eyes are larger, and 
that’s something. She has everything else.” 

The girls, incidentally, didn’t look a bit Jewish. 
Neither, for that matter, did Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman. 
They all had fair hair and skin and light eyes. Mrs. 
Hoffman often spoke about it. 

“You really don’t look a bit Jewish,” some new ac¬ 
quaintance would say. And Mrs. Hoffman would beam. 

“No,” she would say, “it’s peculiar, isn’t it? Lots of 
people who meet me think I’m a Gentile, and that I only 
married a Jew. That’s funny, really, because Mr. Hoff¬ 
man never sets foot inside a temple unless I drag him. 
Although he doesn’t look Jewish, either, and the girls 
don’t, not a bit. We could get into the swellest hotels 
without being suspected. Not that I’d ever go anywhere 
I wasn’t wanted. I don’t care for Gentiles, as a matter 
of fact. My own kind are good enough for me. But it 
is true, we certainly don’t look like a Jewish family.” 

That was something else Eleanor wondered about. If 



44 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


you were so proud of being Jewish, as her mother said 
she was, why should you be so happy at being told you 
didn’t look Jewish? There was something wrong some¬ 
where. It was different with her. She wasn’t particu¬ 
larly proud of being Jewish. It was just something that 
was, something over which she had no control. If she’d 
been born a Presbyterian or a Mohammedan she wouldn’t 
have felt any different. It was all quite accidental, how 
could you feel particularly proud of it? Were all these 
people, she wondered, really so proud, or was it a bit of 
bravado? She remembered once when she was a very 
little girl, how she and Muriel had walked home from 
Sunday School, holding their Hebrew lesson books aloft, 
open to the letters that never succeeded in looking like 
anything but sevens and double u’s to Eleanor. 

“I ain’t ashamed of being Jewish,” she had called out 
to a group of children in front of a Methodist church, 
thrusting her Hebrew book in their astonished faces. 
“See! We’re just as good as you are, any day.” Why? 
As she lay there in the darkness the scene came back with 
amazing clarity, although it had happened seven or eight 
years before. Why had she done that? Those little 
Methodists hadn’t said a word to call forth her action. 
It had been instinctive. It was the same thing that had 
made her mother boast of her pride of race. What was it 
all about? There must be something more to it. She 
made up her mind to write Ted Levine. He was the only 
person she knew to whom she could talk about these 
things. Even Irving Houseman, who liked to discuss the 
Higher Things of Life, and who was awfully intellectual, 
shied away from any such subject. Irving was a pillar of 
the Young Folks’ League of the temple. It wasn’t seemly 
for him to even get involved in conversations about Jews. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


45 


Too unsatisfactory and dangerous. And what was the 
use? 

But Ted was different. He would talk about anything, 
the more dangerous the better. He loved an argument, 
and he was full of wild ideas. It was Ted who had really 
done a great deal to spoil her confirmation. He had 
made her doubt. Still, Ted was awfully clever, and it 
wasn’t as though he were alone in his ideas. His whole 
family felt the same way. They were out and out atheists, 
the Levines. And socialists, too. They had quite a lot 
of money, so they couldn’t have been socialists out of 
spite. They really gave a great deal of money to social¬ 
ist organizations and their big house over in South Orange 
was a meeting place for all kinds of radicals. 

The Levines hadn’t been especially popular last sum¬ 
mer in the country. In the first place they didn’t belong 
in the hotel. They were Russian Jews. Mrs. Hoffman 
was furious when she discovered them. 

“Isn’t there any place in the world where we can be 
free from those kikes?” she’d asked her husband. “You’d 
think they’d have sense enough not to come to a nice 
German Jewish place, where they’re not wanted. But 
they get in everywhere. No wonder some of the swell 
hotels don’t like Jews. They have to be on the safe 
side.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Hoffman, “it’s awful. They try to 
get in everywhere. Why, Sidney Hyams had the nerve 
to propose one for the club last week. We told him he’d 
better withdraw the name or it would surely be black¬ 
balled.” 

Mrs. Hoffman was terribly distressed when Eleanor 
began to be seen so much with Ted Levine. The other 



46 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


women twitted her about it, with just a touch of malice 
in their voices. Mrs. Hoffman spoke to Elly about it. 

“Why,” she asked, “do you just have to pick out that 
Ted Levine to hang around with? When you have half 
a dozen nice boys of your own kind to choose from, I 
can’t see why it should be necessary to always be with 
that kike. I never saw such a girl! Anything to be con¬ 
trary. What do you see in him, anyway? Is he so good 
looking? Is he so brilliant? He’s always shooting off 
his mouth, and what does he say? A lot of stuss, that’s 
what it sounds like to me. A socialist, too. He’ll put 
fine ideas in your head.” 

“Well,” defended Eleanor, “he has brains. And he has 
original ideas.” 

“Original my eye. Eccentric, that’s what you mean. 
Now, I don’t want you to be seen so much with him 
hereafter, do you understand? Just take my word for 
it, I know what I’m doing. It’s for your own good. 
Look at the face on her, will you? You’d think I was 
doing something terrible to her. I don’t know what’s 
the matter with that girl. You’d positively think her 
mother was her own worst enemy, the way she acts. It’s 
certainly no pleasure to have children nowadays. When 
I was young I did what my mother told me, without ask¬ 
ing questions . Ted Levine! Fui.” 

To avoid further argument, Elly tried not to be seen 
conspicuously with Ted, but she still managed to be with 
him a good deal. She liked to hear him talk. He loved 
to have her listen. She made an excellent audience for 
his impassioned outbursts, and she didn’t argue much. 
You couldn’t argue much with Ted. He was so con¬ 
vincing. He had a manner that swept everything before 
it, and when you were with him you believed everything 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


47 


he said. Ted was seventeen, an extremely nice looking 
boy who would one day be handsome, when he learned 
something about grooming. He had fine dark eyes and 
mussy black hair. His skin was a clear olive and his 
nose, although definitely Hebraic in shape, was thin and 
sensitive. He was always excited, always arguing, al¬ 
ways hurling defiance at existing orders, and wanting to 
overthrow things. Eleanor found him disturbing and 
stimulating. If a thought eluded her he could usually 
chase and capture it for her. She found herself believ¬ 
ing in him, in spite of herself. 

She had not seen Ted since her return from the moun¬ 
tains the past September. That was nearly a year ago. 
Her mother refused to let her invite him to the house. 
It would lead to no good, she said. “Stick to your own 
kind, it’s best in the end.” But Elly and Ted had been 
carrying on a desultory sort of correspondence during 
the winter. His letters, infrequent ones, had been full of 
himself. How he had licked a fellow for calling him a 
dirty Jew, how he had been suspended from high school 
for telling a teacher to go to hell, how he had written a 
piece in the school magazine about socialism. 

Once again Elly got out of bed, tiptoeing to the dressing 
table drawer and taking out his last letter. It was dated 
some time in March. She still owed him a reply. She 
stood by the window and read it in the moonlight. Then 
she put it in its place and went back to bed. Yes, she 
would write to him in the morning. She couldn’t see him, 
but it would be nice to get some of this wondering out of 
her system just by writing to Ted. Oh, she was 
sleepy. . . . 

The clock, striking four, found her asleep. 



CHAPTER IV 


i 

Eleanor and Muriel were to be teachers. That was 
all settled. At least, they were going to study to be 
teachers. The chances were they’d both be married long 
before they really got to teaching, but Mrs. Hoffman 
believed in being prepared. Of course, they didn’t ac¬ 
tually have to work. Milton Hoffman was not the kind 
of man who would shirk his responsibilities. He knew 
how to take care of his wife and children. But every¬ 
thing was so expensive nowadays. . . . And girls wanted 
the best of everything. 

“If they want the little luxuries of life,” Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man was wont to say, talking the matter over with her 
friends, “they’ll have to learn to supply them them¬ 
selves. Of course, we’ll never take a cent from them. 
What they earn will belong to them, to do as they please 
with. But I really don’t believe in letting girls grow up 
idle. You never can tell what will happen later on, and 
it’s best to be prepared for a rainy day. I hope they’ll 
never be in a position to really need it, and they won’t, 
as long as Milton lives and has his health. Just the same, 
I want to feel that my girls will be able to take care of 
themselves if they ever have to. We won’t live for¬ 
ever.” 

“Sure, you’re perfectly right,” would come in agree¬ 
ment. “The finest families do it nowadays. It isn’t like 
it used to be, when a man was disgraced if his daughters 
went out of the house to earn money. And, anyway, teach- 

48 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


49 


ing is all right. It’s so refined, and the hours are easy. 
And look at the grand vacations they get. Two months, 
—more, really, every summer, and a week at Christmas 
and Easter. Off at three o’clock every day, and sure of 
their salary every week. Your girls are so bright, too. 
How long do you think they’ll teach, anyway? I know 
them, they’ll be married before you know it. They’re 
very popular with the boys now, aren’t they?” 

Well, yes, Mrs. Hoffman would agree, reluctantly. 
They were pretty well liked. Too well liked as a matter 
of fact. They were always wanting to go out or have 
company, instead of staying at home and doing their 
lessons. 

“But they seem to get along so well, iimbeshrien, I 
really can’t complain. They get very good report cards, 
and I never hear about any trouble from the school, so 
I guess it’s all right. Elly gets especially good marks in 
drawing. She thinks she’ll be a drawing teacher. Her 
teacher seems to think she has quite a talent.” She 
brought out the latest issue of the Wadleigh Owl, which 
had several of Elly’s drawings in it. They were fairly 
good, but not remarkable. Elly was art editor of the 
Owl . 


2 

Yes, Eleanor certainly was getting queer. Even Muriel, 
who loved her very much and who understood her very 
well, had to admit she was puzzled quite a little by 
Elly’s recent behavior. It was a shame, too. If ever a 
girl had popularity in the hollow of her hand, Elly was 
that girl. She was one of the cleverest girls in Wadleigh 
High School, and could have been president of the G. O. 
if she kept in right with the girls. But lately she seemed 



50 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


to be getting in with a rather unpopular crowd. It was 
hard to say exactly what was the matter with them when 
someone asked you to put your finger right on the trouble. 
They weren’t wild or radical exactly, but somehow they 
didn’t seem to adhere to the best Wadleigh traditions. 

Little things, really. For instance, when Wadleigh won 
the annual debate with Washington Irving High School, 
Elly refused to join the cheering in the subway going 
uptown. She said it wasn’t the right attitude. And that 
from the girl who had only last term won the George H. 
Whiteman prize for the best essay on school spirit! Just 
little things like that. It was awfully easy to lose your 
hold on girls, no matter how popular you had been. 
Muriel had to engage in rather frequent arguments with 
her friends, defending Eleanor against their attacks, al¬ 
though in her heart she admitted the justice of what they 
said. Elly certainly was getting queer. 

And Muriel knew what was at the bottom of it, too. 
There wasn’t a shadow of a doubt, it was Ted Levine. 
He and Elly corresponded regularly now, had been doing 
so for nearly two years, and he occasionally came to the 
house to see her. He was nineteen now, and a sopho¬ 
more at Princeton. Elly at seventeen had another term 
in Wadleigh. Then she and Muriel would enter Teachers’ 
Training School. 

That is, if Elly didn’t go completely off her head. She 
had some wild idea about not wanting to teach. Ted 
was encouraging her in the idea which gave Muriel one 
more grievance against him. 


3 

Ted and Eleanor were discussing the subject one Sat¬ 
urday afternoon, when he was in New York for the week- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


51 


end and had come over to see her. They were walking 
along Riverside Drive, in a scurrying spring wind, talking 
eagerly. 

“I can’t be a teacher,” she said. “It’d choke me. It’s 
not that I don’t like children. I do. But there’s so much 
routine to teaching. I hate the idea.” 

“Of course you hate it,” he answered, “you’re not cut 
out for it. You haven’t the temperament for teaching. 
It’s fine to be a teacher if you’re the right kind of per¬ 
son, but you’re not. You’re much too much of an in¬ 
dividualist. Look at what’s happening to you in Wad- 
leigh and with your old Sunday School crowd, just be¬ 
cause you can’t help growing up a little differently from 
the way they’re growing up! You don’t see as much of 
them as you used to, do you? And I noticed you don’t 
wear Houseman’s fraternity pin any more. You fought 
with him on account of me, didn’t you?” Smiling at his 
calm assumption, Eleanor didn’t deny its truth. 

“You hate yourself, don’t you?” she evaded. 

“Well, I’m right, and you know it. You needn’t pull 
any of that coy stuff on me. I know you haven’t got a 
crush on me, Elly. I haven’t got one on you, either. If 
I ever fall for anyone it will probably be some beautiful 
but dumb creature. But you have got a mind. You 
have an immortal soul, too, and I want to save it for you. 
See? I know Houseman got into college when he was 
sixteen, and I know he’s headed straight for Phi Bete. 
That doesn’t mean a damn thing. Any fool can do that 
by grinding. He gets A in Latin, but he won’t read the 
poems of Oscar Wilde because Wilde led an immoral life. 
You call that brains! I have a real brain and so have 
you. For the love of God don’t be a teacher. I pity the 
poor kids if you do. And I pity you, too.” 



52 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“But,” hesitated Elly, “do you really think I could use 
my drawing in some other way? You know it’s the only 
thing I’ve got.” 

“Hell, yes,” Ted said. “There are dozens of things. 
Commercial art. You could do advertising drawing. 
Posters. Costume designs. My sister knows a girl who 
makes a hundred dollars a week designing evening 
dresses for a Fifth Avenue shop. And she’s her own 
boss too. 

“Your stuff’s not half bad. I don’t know why you 
couldn’t get away with it if you had some training. 
I’ve seen some pretty bad stuff in the magazines. Why’n’t 
you go to art school instead of Teachers’ Training? 
You’d be much better off.” 

“I’d love to,” Elly sighed, “but I could never persuade 
father. He’s got it all arranged for us both to be 
teachers, and he never changes his mind. And it would 
mean separating from Muriel. They’d never stand for 
that.” 

“Say, listen,” said Ted slowly, “where do you get this 
stuff of being afraid of your parents? I’ve seen you 
stand up to both of them in a way that I wouldn’t dare 
to try with my old man, and he’s pretty darn liberal. I 
know how you work. All you need is to get a fixed 
idea in your head, and you’re all set. You’re patient and 
kind of stubborn. Or at least older people call it stub¬ 
born. When they are that way they call it determina¬ 
tion.” 

“Do you really think I could get away with it?” Elly 
asked. “You know I’m not particularly talented. I’m 
pretty fair, and I might improve if I went to art school, 
but I’ll never be a genius. That’s why teaching draw- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


53 


ing used to seem all right. Just something to do until 
. . . ” she hesitated. 

“Until you get married,” Ted supplied the words. 
“Well, how do you know you’re going to get married so 
young? Or at all, for that matter? You know you’ll 
never marry Houseman now. Even if you still felt like 
it you couldn’t. You’re getting too different from him. 
He wants a nice Jewish girl, cut out of a pattern. You’d 
never do. You’ll probably wind up by marrying me, and 
I don’t think I’d care to be married to a teacher. Don’t 
interrupt,” as Elly gasped and tried to speak. “Think 
it over. I don’t mean marrying me. We’ll come back 
to that some other time. I mean think over this art school 
stuff. If you make up your mind to do it I’ll bet on you. 
You’ll get there.” 

After Ted left Elly was very quiet. Inside she was 
glowing with a kind of hot excitement. He always had 
that effect on her. He stirred her up. Not emotionally, 
just her mind. She wasn’t getting a crush on him, she 
was certain of that. But he seemed to be able to read 
her subconscious thoughts, and set free all sorts of little 
ideas that had been lurking in the back of her head for 
ages. He was the only person who really understood 
her. 

Funny. She couldn’t help laughing at that. Two years 
ago she had said the very same thing about Irving 
Houseman. The only person who really understood her. 
But now she knew differently. The minute she began 
growing the least little bit away from the ideas of the 
Sunday School crowd, Irving had shown his disapproval. 
He was much more devoted to Muriel now; formerly he 
had thought Muriel commonplace and Elly interesting. 
Now Muriel was interesting and Elly eccentric. For her 



54 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


part, she found Irving rather tiresome. He didn’t stimu¬ 
late her. Ted did. That was it. He always got her 
excited and pointed the way toward something. Usually 
it was something she had really wanted all the while, 
only hadn’t realized it. 

She went to her room and closed the door. Muriel had 
been at a matinee and wasn’t home yet. Elly looked at 
herself in the glass. It wasn’t bad what she saw there. 
The hair, which at fifteen had been rather thin and wispy, 
was growing quite thick now, and its color had subtly 
changed. No more strawberry blond. It was growing 
less red, and tones of almost Roman gold were getting 
into it where the light struck it. It gleamed, too, with 
health and care. And her pale face, with the yellowy 
hazel eyes, brown flecked, looked, she decided, inter¬ 
esting, if not strictly pretty. The lashes were long and 
thick and almost perfectly straight. They were quite 
unusual, golden and dark lashes intermingled, giving an 
odd, unexpected effect. And the brows were just dark 
enough to give her face point. They were slender brows, 
and they formed a sort of modified circumflex over each 
eye. It was the kind of face that had to be helped along. 
Not like Muriel’s with its rosy cheeks, pretty girlish 
mouth and soft chestnut hair. Muriel was frankly 
pretty and she never had to do anything about it. But 
Elly realized she must employ art. (Why did Ted always 
make her conscious of her appearance? she wondered. 
He never spoke of it, yet every time he left her she did 
the same thing. It must be that he made her aware of her 
self and possibilities, and certainly her appearance was 
one of her possibilities.) She rummaged through the 
dressing table drawer until she located a little cardboard 
box that was held closed by a rubber band. Opening 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


55 


this she took out a lip stick, very bright red. She went 
to the door of her room, opened it softly and stepped into 
the hall, straining for any sound. No, her mother was 
not there. She could go ahead safely. 

She shut the door again, gently, and went over to the 
mirror. She applied the rouge rather heavily, and stood 
back to observe its effect on her wide, although delicately 
curved lips. It was quite startling in its transforma¬ 
tion. She walked away from the mirror regarding her¬ 
self from a distance of several feet. Why, she looked 
positively stunning! If only she could always use a lot 
of lipstick, how good looking she would be! It gave just 
the necessary accent to her face, and made her pallor 
look brilliant, instead of just pale. She ought to use 
a lipstick all the time. She wondered how mascara would 
look on her eyelashes. She must buy some and try it. 
Wouldn’t her mother be furious! (When she was young, 
only actresses and bad women used make-up. A little 
powder was all right, but none of this lip rouge. It was 
horrid and indecent. Funny, Elly thought, how every¬ 
thing her mother did was all right for others to do, but 
anything she didn’t happen to do was all wrong and 
immoral.) 

If she became an artist, Elly told herself for the hun¬ 
dredth time, she could do a lot of things that would be 
impossible as a teacher. She could be much freer. And 
freedom was a most desirable thing. She wasn’t alto¬ 
gether sure just what she meant by freedom, but the 
word had a lovely sound. It could mean so much. If 
she did as Ted suggested she’d belong to herself instead 
of to a system. She couldn’t bear being part of a system. 
No. That had been the trouble with the Sunday School 
crowd. And the religion, too, for that matter. All part 



56 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


of a system. Some people didn’t fit into systems and 
she guessed she was one of them. She must go to art 
school. She must figure out some plan of procedure. 
There wasn’t a lot of time to lose. Her father would 
certainly oppose the idea and it might take all year to 
win him over. The art school was pretty expensive, 
too. But if he complained on that score she’d tell him to 
use the money she’d inherited from Grandma Hirsch. It 
was hers, even if he held it in trust, and it could certainly 
be applied to her education. She grew more and more 
excited. Her stomach had funny little wiggles in it and 
her face was feverishly hot, although it remained perfectly 
pale. 

She hadn’t taken off the lip rouge when Muriel came in, 
bursting with eagerness over her afternoon with Irving 
Houseman. The matinee had been wonderful,—“such a 
strong play. Mother’d be furious if she knew I’d been 
to that, but we were both dying to see it. It has a 
wonderful moral. The acting is marvelous. You ought 
to go.” They had gone to Schrafft’s Fifth Avenue place 
for tea and had met quite a few people they knew. 

“Fay was there with that Goldman fellow, you know, 
the football player. Wonder how he ever got on a foot¬ 
ball team with a name like that? Still, they say they 
don’t hate Jews so much at Yale. Fay looked stunning. 
She had on her new coat, it’s royal blue, with a kolinsky 
collar and cuffs and a wide band around the bottom. It 
cost a hundred and fifty dollars, she signaled it to me 
across the table. You ever notice how the Wallbergs 
always tell you what things cost? You’d think they 
wouldn’t. The family’s had money for such a long time 
they ought to be used to it by this time.” She noticed 
all at once that Eleanor wasn’t listening. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


57 


“Saaay,” drawled Muriel, hand on her plump hips, 
“where are you, anyway? You didn’t hear a word I 
said.” Then, as she came closer, she saw the carmined 
lips, the unnaturally shining eyes, the restrained eager¬ 
ness of her sister’s manner. “What’s up, anyway? Let 
me in on it, won’t you?” 

“What?” asked Elly absently. “What did you say?” 

“I said,” repeated Muriel, “what’s it all about? Ted 
Levine’s been here and you’re all queer again. What is it 
this time?” Eleanor told her. 

“Listen,” she said rapidly, “I’m not going to training 
school. I don’t want to be a teacher. I’ll make a rotten 
teacher. I’ve told you all that before, but I’ve never 
told it to mother and father. I’m going to this evening 
at dinner, and I want you to help me.” 

“How in the devil can I help you? It’s your own 
funeral. I think you’re crazy myself. You always get 
foolish after you’ve been with that idiot.” 

“He’s not an idiot,” snapped Elly, “and I don’t get 
foolish after I’ve been with him. I got sense enough to 
see where I’m going and why, and why I shouldn’t go 
some other way just because somebody said I should, 
without thinking about it at all. Nice girls are teachers, 
so I must be a teacher. Nice girls don’t do anything 
else to earn their livings, so I mustn’t. Well, it’s silly, 
and I don’t believe in it. And you can help me if you 
want to, by keeping quiet when I talk to the folks. You 
could back me up, but I suppose that would be asking 
too much. Anyway, you don’t have to throw any extra 
monkey wrenches into the machinery.” 

Muriel smiled. “Gee,” she said, “you don’t have to 
get so het up about it. You’d think I cared. If you 
don’t feel like being a teacher don’t be one. Though I 



58 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


can’t see why you should go to so much trouble for such 
a little thing. How long will you be a teacher, anyway? 
You’ll probably get married before you even get your 
permanent license. But if you want to start something, 
go ahead, I won’t queer it. But I’ll bet you don’t get 
away with it. Father’s pretty determined for you to be 
a teacher, and you know mother. She hates the idea of 
art school or anything like that. And she’s got a pretty 
strong will.” 

“She thinks she has,” said Eleanor, “but she takes most 
of it out in talking. I’ll win in the end. You just wait 
and see!” 

“All right,” replied Muriel good-humoredly, “only be¬ 
fore you go in to dinner you’d better wipe some of that 
goo off your face, or you’ll be so busy fighting on that 
account you won’t have a chance to speak about anything 
else.” Eleanor took heed, and with a piece of gauze she 
rubbed the rouge off her lips, surveying herself in the 
mirror. 

“It makes an awful difference, doesn’t it?” she asked. 
Muriel agreed. 

“Yop. You look much better with it on. Kind of dis¬ 
tinguished. Why don’t you use it all the time? Ma’d 
never know the difference if you put it on after you got 
outside.” 

“There’s no fun in that. I want to use it and have her 
know I use it. Can’t you see?” Muriel shrugged and 
made no answer. 

Eleanor waited until they had finished the soup and 
were on the roast beef before she spoke. The sound of 
soup being eaten was more than ordinarily disturbing to¬ 
night. 

She hesitated before speaking, not knowing exactly how 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


59 


to begin. Should she try to approach it tactfully, and 
lead up to the real point gradually, or should she just 
plunge right in? Well, tact wasn’t one of her strong points. 
She’d better just plunge. She started to speak, but her 
throat was suddenly husky. Darn! That was the trouble 
with her. If she could only stay perfectly calm, like 
girls in stories. But as soon as she tried to speak of 
anything that was close to her, she got excited, and began 
to cry, and that spoiled everything. Once you start to 
cry it’s so easy for someone to overrule you. She must 
try hard to stay calm. She cleared her throat and found 
words. 

“Father.” Mr. Hoffman looked up from his plate, 
where his attention had been centered. 

“Yes, my dear.” He was in a good humor. He’d won 
thirty-seven dollars in the afternoon playing poker at 
the club, and the soup had been his favorite kind. 

“Father, I want to ask you something. You know I’ve 
tried to speak to you about it before, but somehow I never 
got a chance. It’s been on my mind for a long time.” 

“Well, what is it?” her mother cut in impatiently. 
“She’s so aggravating. Always hems and haws about a 
thing. Why don’t you come right to the point? What do 
you want?” 

“I want not to be a teacher,” Eleanor said, a note of 
defiance in her voice. “I’m not cut out to be a teacher. 
I don’t want to go to training school. I want to go to art 
school. Please don’t make me go to training school.” 
Her father looked at her gravely as she spoke. 

“How long have you had this idea?” he asked quietly. 
Mr. Hoffman never got excited under any circumstances. 
He couldn’t afford to, he always said. Someone in the 
family had to keep cool. 



60 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“For a long time/’ Elly answered eagerly. “Oh, it’s 
only recently that it got very clear in my mind, only since 
it began to be near the time to enter training school. I 
know it’s still more than a year off, but you have to get 
ready for these things, and it would make everything much 
simpler if you’d just say I didn’t have to go. I’d make a 
rotten teacher, really. I haven’t the temperament for it.” 
Her father smiled at the word. Her mother fiddled angrily 
with her fork. 

“Temperament,” she exclaimed. “The ideal What do 
you know about temperament? You’ve been listening to 
that little kike, Ted Levine. Every time he comes to 
this house the same thing happens. He fills her head full 
of nonsense and we have to suffer for it. I won’t have 
it, I tell you. He can’t come here any more. I’m sick 
and tired of it!” 

“Is that it?” asked Mr. Hoffman, still good humoredly. 
“Has that boy been putting ideas into your head?” 
Eleanor felt the tears welling up. How disgusting of her! 
She simply mustn’t give way. The whole thing depended 
on her ability to be calm. 

“I don’t see why you insist that he puts ideas into my 
head,” she said. “Don’t you think I have any ideas of 
my own? Just because we happen to agree on something 
doesn’t make him responsible for every thought I have. 
That’s not the point, anyway. The point is that I don’t 
want to go to training school. I want to go to art school.” 

“Art school!” exclaimed her mother. “My God, what 
an idea! What for? Aren’t you crazy enough now, with¬ 
out going to art school yet, to make you crazier?” 

“Come now, Laura,” soothed her husband, “don’t get 
excited. Let’s hear her out. After all, she isn’t exactly 
a child any more. At least she’s entitled to let us hear 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


61 


what she has to say.” Elly shot her father a grateful 
look. He was a reasonable human being, at any rate. 

“Go ahead, youngster,” he said indulgently, “out with 
it. What’s the nonsense you’ve got in your head?” 

“Well,” said Eleanor, “I’ve already told you. I’m not 
fitted for teaching. You always say you want me to have 
some occupation so that I can take care of myself if neces¬ 
sary. Or in case I don’t get married, or even if I do get 
married, to have something to fall back on afterward if 
anything should happen. That’s what you always say, 
isn’t it? Well, you’re perfectly right. I should have some 
occupation. Only it should be an occupation that I’m 
fitted for. And the nearer I get to teaching the more I 
realize that it’s not the right thing for me. It’s too con¬ 
fining.” 

“Too confining?” hurled Mrs. Hoffman. “I’d like to 
know any occupation that’s less confining. Look at all 
the vacations! And off at three o’clock every day. What 
more could you ask?” 

“Please, mother,” Eleanor begged, her voice sharp with 
her effort to withhold her tears, “will you please let me 
finish what I’m trying to say without interrupting? It 
won’t take long. You know I can draw fairly well. With 
training I could draw much better. I’m no genius, but 
I’m sure I could make a fairly successful commercial 
artist. The field is a new one and there are big chances 
in it for girls. There is quite a lot of money, too—much 
more than in teaching. And I’d be doing something I 
liked. 

“Listen, father,” she went on eagerly, “if you don’t want 
to spend the money, or can’t afford it, you could use my 
share of grandma’s money. I’d much rather have you 
spend it on art school than save it for a dowry I’ll probably 



62 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


never need. I don’t think I’ll ever marry, and even if I 
do, it won’t be the kind of man who’d want money. Will 
you let me try it, please?” Mr. Hoffman looked grave. 
He cleared his throat. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Your idea may have some 
sense to it. But how can I be sure that you know your 
own mind? This is very sudden, you know.” 

“It’s not sudden. I’ve thought of it for a long time, 
even though I’ve never spoken of it before.” 

“Well, if you think you want to be an artist you should 
be willing to wait, to see whether you really want to. I’ll 
tell you what I’ll do. You go through training school, and 
then if you’re still of the same mind we’ll see about it. 
Perhaps I might let you go to art school then.” Eleanor 
groaned. Reasonable. What a fool she had been to think 
so. It had just been his way of handling the situation. 
Pretending to be interested, just to calm her and her 
mother. Treating her like a baby. And the exasperating 
part of it was that he thought he was getting away with it. 
That’s what she hated. It was bad enough for him to 
act that way without having him believe she was such a 
saphead as to fall for it. 

“No,” she said, her young voice suddenly hard with 
adult anger. “That’s not what I want. It’s silly to talk 
to me that way. Why should I waste three perfectly 
good years? I know my own mind now, have known it 
for a long time. Those three years could be spent study¬ 
ing what I want to study, and by the time I’m twenty I 
can start out earning my own living in something that I 
like. I can’t see why you should be so set on this teaching. 
It isn’t even a sure profession as it used to be. Why, 
Thelma Livingston hasn’t got an appointment yet, and 
she’s been out of training school for more than a year. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


63 


She just gets odd jobs substituting here and there, about 
once a week. What’s the sense of that? I won't be a 
teacher, I tell you.” Her voice broke with the intensity 
of her feeling. She was surprised herself to find how 
much it meant to her. It wasn’t being an artist that mat¬ 
tered. She had no tremendous urge toward creating any¬ 
thing, she admitted that to herself. It wasn’t that she 
would die if she couldn’t express herself through pen and 
brush, like people in books. That’s wasn’t the point at 
all. She seemed to be fighting for something that was 
suddenly alive in her, or at least that she had suddenly 
realized was alive in her, something they were trying to 
trap and put into a machine and kill. She couldn’t tell 
what it was. It had no name, but it was there. It was 
almost like fighting for her life. That’s what it amounted 
to, really. 

Being a teacher was the symbol of the trap they were 
trying to force her into. Just like Ernest Pontifex, who 
let his people force him into the ministry. How much 
that book stood for to her! Look how hard it had been 
for Ernest to get out of the trap, once he was in it. She 
must win this battle, because if she didn’t all the future 
ones would be so much harder. And there would be 
future ones, she could see that now. Many, many. 

The amazement on her mother’s face was strange to 
see, almost funny. 

“What do you mean by speaking that way to your 
father,” she demanded. “Have you no respect? The 
idea! I’m against this art school business, and you’ll 
never do it with my consent. It’s not nice. What kind 
of people would you come in contact with? A lot of Bo¬ 
hemians from that Greenwich Village. No. You’re ec¬ 
centric enough already. 



64 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“I can’t imagine what makes her like that,” Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man’s voice rose, and she assumed an attitude as though 
she were addressing an audience, speaking, not to any¬ 
body in the room, but to imaginary hearers. “I don’t 
know why it is that she can’t be like all the other nice 
respectable Jewish girls. Like her sister, f’rinstance. 
Like her own kind. But no! Anything to be different. 
Anything to be contrary. She’s been that way since she 
was a child. She started the day she was born. She 
wouldn’t even drink her own mother’s milk. Had to have 
a wet-nurse!” Mrs. Hoffman bristled with indignation at 
the recalcitrant infant. Mr. Hoffman smiled. Muriel, 
who had maintained complete silence, giggled. Eleanor 
burst into hysterical laughter, quickly smothered. 

“That’s right, laugh at me!” The smile was erased, as 
though a sponge had been drawn over her husband’s face. 
The giggle was checked. Gravity prevailed once more. 
The family wasn’t anxious to hear another tirade. They 
weren’t things anyone would draw wittingly upon his 
head. Still, the little burst of merriment had helped to 
rob the atmosphere of much of its intensity. Eleanor 
smiled across at her father. 

“How about it?” she asked. “Will you give me a 
chance?” She knew if he consented her mother could be 
won over, even though it might be unwillingly. Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man always gave in grudgingly to any project that was not 
originally her own. And she used it against you forever 
after. But the point was that she could be persuaded by 
her husband to do almost anything. She fussed and fumed 
a great deal, but usually in the end she gave in to him. 
His indulgent manner had been fooling her these twenty- 
one years. 

“Well, perhaps,” said Mr. Hoffman, who was anxious 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


65 


to bring the subject to a close. He didn’t care at all for 
these family debates. They were annoying. He was an 
ardent subscriber to the theory of peace at any price. 

“You go ahead with your work now,” he said, “and 
when you graduate from high school we’ll see. I wouldn’t 
let you begin until then, at any rate. And in the mean¬ 
time you might inquire into the rates of the various 
schools. A lot will depend on how much it’s going to 
cost.” Eleanor glowed, but she thanked him reservedly. 
She wasn’t going to be fooled again, not the same evening. 

Dinner was over by this time. The girls left the table. 
They were going to Fay Wallberg’s house for the eve¬ 
ning and it was nearly time for the boys to call for 
them. 

“You look like the devil,” said Muriel, “come inside and 
fix up a little.” She put her arm around Eleanor. “It 
looks pretty good for the first attack,” she said. “Do you 
think you’ll get away with it?” 

“I don’t know,” Elly replied. “Wait a minute.” She 
tiptoed back down the hall toward the dining room, and 
stood behind the half-closed door. Her parents were still 
sitting at the table. It was mean to listen that way, she 
told herself, but she just had to know what he meant to 
do about it. 

“—really intend to let her carry out that ridiculous 
idea?” her mother was saying. Her father replied in his 
measured voice. 

“Well, I don’t know. No harm in giving her a little 
head right now, is there? I’ll let her think I’m giving in, 
if that’ll make her happy. Then, next year we can see. 
If it’s only a whim she’ll have forgotten all about it by 
that time, and if she really means it, perhaps we should 
let her do it. I can’t see much to it myself, and I don’t 



66 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


believe she has any talent to speak of, but I never want it 
said that Milton Hoffman stood in the way of his own 
child’s future.” Eleanor smiled to herself. Good old dad. 
She’d win him over yet. But just to make assurance 
doubly sure, she’d fix things so she couldn’t get into train¬ 
ing school. 

“I’ll cut gym all next year,” she said to herself. “And 
I won’t make up that algebra I flunked in. If I can’t get 
into training school he’ll have to let me do the other 
thing.” It was a dirty trick she was contemplating. That 
was true, all right, she admitted to herself. But all’s fair 
in love and war. And this was war, certainly. 



CHAPTER V 


i 

Eleanor stuck to her resolve. Graduation from Wad- 
leigh taking place with due solemnity the following June, 
found her lacking a regent’s count in algebra, as well as 
a full term of gym credits. These, however, did not inter¬ 
fere with her diploma; that was received to the satisfaction 
of Mrs. Hoffman, along with some two hundred others, 
including Muriel’s. Eleanor had wanted very much not 
to attend graduation. The whole idea bored her, she told 
Muriel, and she wished that she could develop a last 
minute attack of bronchitis. But it would have to be 
pretty realistic bronchitis to convince her mother, and 
that would have taken almost as much effort as going to 
the graduation. So she went. 

The subject of art school had been mentioned at various 
times during the year after the first violent battle. Be¬ 
tween Elly and her father a state of armed truce existed; 
between her and her mother, guerilla warfare. No amount 
of argument, however, served to bear down the girl’s de¬ 
termination. By June, in fact, it had long since stopped 
being merely a question of training school versus art 
school. That issue was lost in the bigger one of Eleanor’s 
suddenly developed (to her) selfness. She was Eleanor 
Hoffman, a human being, a separate entity, and not merely 
Eleanor Hoffman, the child and possession of Mr. Hoff¬ 
man and Mrs. Hoffman. She had something inside of her, 
something she could not as yet define, that demanded to 
be kept alive at all costs. And although she hated fight- 
67 


68 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


ing, it was almost easy to fight for that thing. One of the 
demands of that thing in its effort to keep alive was that 
she should do nothing without knowing why. She was 
past the stage in her existence where she must blindly do 
what someone else told her without having a reason for 
it. A reason more relevant than “I am your mother, or 
your father, and I say you should do so.” No, there was 
something wrong about that. Mrs. Hoffman and a great 
many other people, too, said that was merely a question 
of respect to your parents. But it seemed to Elly more 
like a lack of respect for yourself. Respect wasn’t some¬ 
thing you accorded to people automatically, just because 
they happened to be placed in some arbitrarily fixed rela¬ 
tionship toward you. No, not Elly. You respected them 
if they earned it and to earn it they had to treat you like 
a human being, not like a piece of furniture; to earn it 
they had to know they must earn it, and sit back and 
consider it their due. All this, however, she kept quietly 
locked within herself, except on those rare occasions 
when she saw Ted Levine. There was no use talking to 
Muriel about any of it; Muriel was so impatient with it 
all. Her plan was to say nothing, never answer back, 
appear to give in and then go ahead and do as she pleased. 
She thought Eleanor was a fool to buck things, and said 
so. Therefore the subject rarely came up between them. 

When the time for enrollment came it was compara¬ 
tively easy. Eleanor, by acting all summer as though art 
school were a fact definitely accepted, and incontestable, 
had succeeded by autumn in making her parents believe 
that they had been in accord with the plan all the time. 
Although Mrs. Hoffman still blustered a bit, and talked 
angrily of “the riffraff” Eleanor would come in contact 
with at the school, she had reached the point where she 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


69 


was boasting just the least little bit to her friends about 
the matter. 

“Oh, no,” she would say in response to a question, 
“Eleanor’s not going to training school, only Muriel. 
Eleanor was so clever with her drawing in Wadleigh that 
Miss Jennings—that’s the head of the art department, 
you know—thought it would be a crime not to let her go 
ahead. Yes, she’s a very talented girl. Muriel’s much 
easier to handle, but Elly is the clever one—always has 
been since childhood. Why, when she was only four years 
old, she used to draw horses and cows that were positively 
remarkable.” She never said these things in Eleanor’s 
presence, of course. Mrs. Hoffman didn’t believe in spoil¬ 
ing her children, and goodness knows, Eleanor was con¬ 
ceited and headstrong enough, without encouraging her. 

Mr. Hoffman, reasonably convinced that Eleanor meant 
to apply herself to the work in art school, had decided to 
follow the line of least resistance. The result altogether 
was that in September, a few days after Muriel entered 
upon her first term in the training school at One Hundred 
and Nineteenth Street and Seventh Avenue, Eleanor en¬ 
tered the American Academy of Applied Arts on Madison 
Avenue in the forties. The course under which Eleanor 
enrolled, which included at various times costume design, 
interior decoration and poster work, as well as the funda¬ 
mentals of line and color, covered a period of three years. 
But Eleanor had already decided that by the end of the 
second year she ought to know enough to do a little work 
on the outside. 


2 

The classes at the academy were small, averaging about 
twenty. As a rule they were almost equally divided into 



70 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


boys and girls. Each subject had its own instructor,— 
they were mostly men, even in the costume design classes 
—but the head master of the school made daily rounds of 
inspection and direction. He was a curious man, this head 
master, whose name, John Lyman Carver, would have 
established his geographical identity at once, if his appear¬ 
ance and manner had not, which it did. John Lyman 
Carver, at the time of Eleanor’s enrollment in his school, 
a man approaching sixty, was a member of one of Massa¬ 
chusetts’ oldest and most distinguished families. Being a 
direct descendant of the first governor of that most august 
state, he had the fine scorn and deep unconcern of family 
tradition that can be maintained only by those persons 
whose family tradition is unimpeachable. 

Destined by his family for a lawyer,—the profession of 
the Carver males for generations—John Lyman had scan¬ 
dalized his parents and all but killed his grandmother by 
deciding, upon his graduation from Harvard, that he would 
not continue in the law school, after the manner of his 
forebears, but would become an instructor in an obscure 
department in his Alma Mater’s school of fine arts, a de¬ 
partment that his family understood vaguely as having 
something to do with the interior of European cathedrals. 
As the instructorship was vacant at the time and as John 
Lyman’s great aunt Mathilda had, unfortunately for the 
family if happily for John Lyman, left him a sizeable in¬ 
come, there was no way of stopping him. 

Becoming a teacher instead of a lawyer had been John 
Lyman Carver’s first tangible break with the family tra¬ 
ditions. Others followed in rapid succession. After sev¬ 
eral years of lecturing about the interiors of European 
cathedrals and similar subjects, during which he wrote a 
number of instructive and entertaining books dealing fur- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


71 


ther with the matter, he left Harvard, Boston, his family 
and the Episcopalian Church behind him and went to New 
York, where for several more years he did nothing but live 
on his income, contribute occasional articles to art maga¬ 
zines, lecture now and then at a fashionable woman’s club 
and give parties. The women’s clubs loved him because 
he insulted them. He lampooned their manner of dress¬ 
ing, he burlesqued their ideas on home decoration, he 
satirized their mode of life. As a result his vogue grew 
until one day he was asked to form an art class, to meet 
at the homes of a group of New York’s foremost Socially 
Registered. 

The art class grew into a number of art classes, and 
John Lyman Carver’s income from his Aunt Mathilda was 
appreciably increased each season by his income from the 
yearning dowagers and debutantes who flocked to hear 
him abuse them. After some seasons of this success he 
opened his school, the Academy of Applied Arts. While 
John Lyman Carver’s social sallies abated not a whit, his 
academy upheld the strictest scholastic standards. There 
was no fooling there. You had to show good cause to get 
into the school and equally good cause to stay in. To be 
a Carver graduate meant as much as to be a graduate of 
the Art Students’ League, and in addition there was very 
little atmosphere of the conventionally unconventional 
about it. 

John Lyman Carver was then, in the fall of 1916, when 
Eleanor entered his school, an aging but not elderly marti¬ 
net, with a fringe of white hair surrounding an island of 
baldness, and a blue suited figure, plump with the plump¬ 
ness of one of his well-corseted dowagers. A voice, low 
yet penetrating, that could mock you and usually did, but 
that could be very kind if it cared to be, was matched by 



72 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


the light blue eyes, eyes that had at once the hardness and 
the fire of ice. He looked like anything in the world but 
an instructor in art, above all the popular conception of 
the instructor in art. 

And he behaved little enough like one. Yet he was 
considered at that time the foremost authority in the 
United States on woman’s dress and one of the chief au¬ 
thorities on interior decoration. His books on the subjects 
were in every public library in America, and his opinion 
on every vagary of fashion was eagerly sought by 
women’s-page editors and symposium collecting reporters. 
He was always willing to talk and he always said some¬ 
thing quotable, something that would provoke discussion. 

John Lyman Carver was the sort of man about whom 
people invariably said, with an air of making a tremendous 
discovery, that “You either adored him or you hated him.” 
There was no middle ground. It was impossible to say, 
“Oh, I don’t care for him much, but he’s all right.” If 
you didn’t fall under the spell of his rather questionable 
charm you writhed under the lash of his arrogance. 

Elly was among the company that adored him. From 
the first moment that she saw him, and heard his knife- 
edged voice cutting into the very soul of a red-haired girl 
for daring to appear at school in a pink sweater, she wor¬ 
shiped him. 

There was no question of an infatuation. She did not 
fancy herself in love with him. Eleanor was fairly clear¬ 
headed in matters of that kind, and, besides, John Lyman 
Carver was not the sort of man one could possibly con¬ 
ceive any kind of real warm personal feeling for. He 
was too hard and brilliant. But he seemed, in the little 
daily glimpses she got of him, to embody so many of the 



Wfto WOULD BE FREE 


73 


characteristics she most admired, to be the personification 
of the things she was groping towards. 

He thought so straight, it seemed to Elly. No senti¬ 
mentality. How she hated sentimentality. It was so ugly 
and cruel, and it mussed things up in such a horrible way. 
Mr. Carver, it was evident from the things he said, would 
never permit his vision to be clouded by sentimentality. 
Of course, he was flashy. But behind the flash there was 
soundness, Eleanor felt. All that glitters is not dross. 

It was not long before the influence of John Lyman 
Carver made itself felt in the Hoffman household. Mrs. 
Hoffman coming home from a matinee one Wednesday 
afternoon was astonished to find that the victrola, which 
for five years stood at an angle jutting into the living 
room from its far corner, was suddenly pushed against the 
wall flatly. 

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed upon seeing it, 
“what has gotten into Katie? She must have dusted be¬ 
hind this thing at last, and she forgot to push it back where 
it belongs.” 

“No, mother,” said Eleanor, “Katie didn’t do that. I 
did it myself.” 

“What for? I’d like to know.” 

“Well, it isn’t right to have things caticorner in a room. 
It’s not restful. Everything should be on a line with the 
walls. Those rugs now, I was just going to fix them too. 
They don’t look right slanting across the room that way. 
Put them parallel with the walls and you’ll see how much 
better they look.” 

Mrs. Hoffman surveyed her daughter in amazement as 
she walked over to the victrola and readjusted it to its 
accustomed position. 

“Is that so?” she asked, rhetorically. “Since when do 



74 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


you tell me how my furniture should be arranged? For 
twenty-one years I’ve had my rugs like that, and now, 
because you go to art school, I must change them. I don’t 
like things straight. It’s too set. It doesn’t look home¬ 
like. And don’t you start telling me how to arrange my 
house, young lady. When you have a house of your own 
you can fix it any way you like, with the furniture all in a 
row like a prison cell, but while you live in your mother’s 
house you’ll stand for her ideas. If you don’t like it you 
can lump it.” 

“Well, I don’t care,” replied Eleanor, “it’s wrong that 
way. Mr. Carver says . . .” Her mother cut in. 

“Oh, shut up with your Mr. Carver. You’d think he 
was God the way you talk. Don’t come to me with too 
much of that stuff, or I’ll take you away from that darn 
school. I never wanted you to go there in the first place. 
If all you can learn there is how to sass your own mother, 
I guess you needn’t go, ’cause you know that well enough 
already.” 

The phase soon passed. Not Elly’s admiration of Car¬ 
ver. That persisted. She never entirely recovered from 
that. But it wasn’t long before she stopped fussing with 
her mother about the furniture. Some day, she decided, 
she’d have a place of her own, and there she’d do what¬ 
ever she wanted. While she stayed at home she’d cut it 
out. Other things were coming up. 

3 

School was altogether wonderful. Girls and boys from 
all over the country came there to study. Such interest¬ 
ing girls and boys, so different from the ones she was 
accustomed to—her own kind, as her mother always said. 
Of course, the first few weeks there was a certain amount 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


75 


of formality, and she didn’t get to know them right away. 
She ate her lunch and spent her free time with Alice Her¬ 
zog and Virginia Holt, two Wadleigh girls who were in 
her class. 

In about a month, however, she began to know the 
names of most of the students, and the formality broke 
up. It started by comparing notes with a girl across the 
aisle on a costume designing problem they were asked to 
bring in. After that they got to talking, and in a little 
while they were quite friendly. The girl’s name was Eva 
Gerrard, and she came from Washington. She appeared 
to have a great deal of influence among a small group of 
Washington and Baltimore girls in the class, and Eleanor 
noticed that she was somewhat older than the others, about 
twenty-five, she thought. With another girl she shared 
an apartment on Forty-ninth Street, between Madison and 
Fifth Avenue, rather near the school, and one day she 
invited Eleanor to come there for tea. 

“I’d love to,” Eleanor said. “Wait a minute, I’ll phone 
home and say I’ll be a little late. My mother worries so 
if I’m not home at the usual time.” In a minute she was 
out, and a short walk brought them to Eva’s house. It 
was a regulation remodeled apartment building, which 
had once been the home of a wealthy old family. Eva 
and her friend, Roberta Burton, lived on the top floor, in 
the rear. They had two rooms, with a bath, a kitchenette 
and a small expanse of roofing euphemistically called a 
roof garden. It was a pleasant thing when the weather 
was warm, to sit out there and work, or just not do any¬ 
thing. From the roof the whole south fagade of St. Pat¬ 
rick’s cathedral was plainly visible, its spires mounting 
ecstatically up into the city sky. Eleanor stepping out on 
the roof, couldn’t withhold an involuntary exclamation. 



76 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“How I envy you! ” Eva Gerrard laughed. 

“Well, anyway, you’re frank about it. I don’t blame 
you, though. I’d envy myself if I were you. It’s wonder¬ 
ful to be here this way. Don’t you adore New York?” 

“I’m crazy about it,” Eleanor replied. “I can’t tell 
you how much I love it, but sometimes I wish I hadn’t 
been born here, then I’d have the thrill of seeing it all 
for the first time. How did you feel when you first saw 
it?” 

“I don’t remember,” Eva said. “I was only about nine 
years old the first time I came to New York, and I’ve 
been coming at least once a year ever since. Anyway, 
Washington is too near and too cosmopolitan for anyone 
who comes from there to get much of a thrill from this. 
The kind of a thrill you’re talking about, I mean. What 
you want is to get someone from the south or the middle 
west and bring ’em here. Have you ever been in the 
middle west?” 

“No,” Eleanor admitted, smiling ruefully, “Buffalo’s 
the western boundary of my travels. Why?” 

“Well, I have. Been as far west as Denver, and spent 
quite a lot of time around the middle western states— 
Kansas, Missouri, Wisconsin and those places, and you 
can’t imagine what New York means to people there. 
Sometimes they pretend to be scornful, but usually they 
don’t bother to pretend, and if you come from New York, 
the world is yours as far as they’re concerned. Why, if 
you’re even someone who goes to New York a lot, like 
me, they salaam before you all the time, but if you live 
there, if you were born there, they’re your absolute slaves. 
If you want a taste of power, go out to St. Louis or Kan¬ 
sas City for a week or two, and hang around with the 
gang who want to do some things. The art school crowd, 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


77 


or the ones with writing ambitions, or something like that. 
They all stick together more or less, and feed each other’s 
imagination. It’s the only way they can keep alive out 
there.” 

Eleanor was silent. She sat on a stool on the roof and 
gazed abstractedly at the spires. Eva busied herself with 
getting tea. There was a pale gold-colored tea set of 
Ruskin ware, the cups as thin and delicate as a breath. 
She wheeled the tea wagon out across the French door 
that led onto the roof. She smiled down at Eleanor. 

“How you can sit and look from you,” she said. “You 
do it all the time. I’ve watched you in class doing it when 
you should be listening or working. What are you think¬ 
ing about all the time?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Different things. Just now I was 
thinking about what a provincial life you can lead in 
New York.” 

“That’s not a particularly original idea, you know. 
After they get here and use up all the thrills, the mid¬ 
landers start to get superior, and tell you what a hick town 
New York is. But they always stay.” 

“Oh, I know it’s not original, but I mean something 
different. I don’t believe New York is a hick town. And 
when I said provincial I didn’t mean just because a person 
didn’t travel much. I believe you could never leave Man¬ 
hattan Island and yet not be provincial if you knew how to 
live with what you had around you—knew how and had 
the chance. The whole world’s in New York. Gee, I 
know loads of people who have been all over Europe 
dozens of times and they’re the biggest hicks in creation. 
I know a woman and a girl who’ve just come back from 
a trip around the world, and it’s affected them no more 
than a news reel at the movies. Not as much. And there 



78 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


are people who don’t travel at all, and they seem to know 
everything. Like Miss Blaine, a teacher I had in high 
school. Right in the middle of that prison, locked up with 
a whole lot of women whose minds are absolutely in 
strait jackets, she’s free. She’s never been abroad, and 
she hasn’t been around this country much, but she seems 
to have something. I don’t exactly know what it is, but 
it makes her alive. There’s nothing routine about her. 
She teaches but she’s not like a teacher, and she doesn’t 
just know teachers. She’s free. You’re free. I’m not, 
but I will be some day. Nobody could want anything the 
way I want freedom and not get it.” Eva was pouring 
tea. She smiled again. She felt so much older than 
Eleanor, almost like the girl’s mother. And she knew 
precisely what was happening to Elly. She had gone 
through something of the same thing herself. 

“I believe you will get free,” she said. “There’s really 
only one thing you have to remember. Most of the time 
when people say ‘if you want a thing enough you’ll get it,’ 
they think that all they have to do is to sit around and 
concentrate hard on wishing, like Aladdin or somebody in 
a fairy tale. But that’s not the idea at all. If you want 
a thing enough you’ll make it happen. You’ll fight for it 
and work for it and give up anything else for it and even¬ 
tually you’ll get it. And if you don’t get it, that’s a sure 
sign that you didn’t want it enough. I know, because 
something like it happened to me once. Not precisely in 
the same way—but a parallel situation.” 

“I guess that’s right. Anyway, it sounds like a com¬ 
fortable alibi if you fail to get what you go after. But 
I’ll get what I want. Believe me, I know it’s going to be 
hard, because everyone around me wants other things for 
me. I had to fight to get to art school. My parents 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


79 


wanted me to be a teacher. Mr. Carver’s a free person, 
isn’t he? Don’t you think he’s wonderful?” 

“Yes. But you know he never means a word he says.” 

“I think you’re wrong about that,” Elly said. “You’re 
fooled by his manner. He talks as though he didn’t mean 
what he says, but I bet he does. That flippant line of his 
is a sort of protective coloration. Under it he can say 
anything he likes and most people just naturally conclude 
that he doesn’t mean it.” 

“It doesn’t really matter whether he means the stuff or 
not, he’s so amusing. My father knows him awfully well. 
They went to Harvard together, and dad says he was 
exactly the same then as he is now. Just as flippant and 
just as shocking and just as entertaining. He had to fight 
for his freedom, I’ll bet. You know what kind of atmos¬ 
phere he comes from. Rigid New England stuff, with 
horsehair sofas and red plush chairs. His family threw 
fits, dad says, when he refused to be a lawyer and took an 
instructorship in the college instead. But he just rode 
right over them. That’s what you’ve got to do to people 
who get in your way. Ride right over them. Have some 
more tea?” 

Roberta Burton came in while they were drinking their 
tea. She was a lovely yellow-haired girl, with a brilliant 
complexion and huge blue eyes with the traditionally dark 
lashes of beauty. As a matter of fact, the lashes were 
quite pale in their native state. Roberta, a wizard with 
the makeup box, darkened them carefully and perfectly 
every day with a tiny brush and a suspicion of mascara. 
Roberta bounded into the room. She was a light, grace¬ 
ful girl who could bound without devastating results. 

“Look,” she cried, before she was well into the room, 





80 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“look, I’ve had my hair cut. Don’t you think it makes me 
look like Irene Castle?” 

Hat in hand she hopped out onto the roof, where Eva 
and Eleanor gazed at her, speechless with wonder. Cut¬ 
ting off one’s hair was no casual matter in those days. It 
was a hazardous undertaking, and it might result in social 
suicide. Not that it would with Roberta Burton. Roberta 
was a girl who transcended every situation in which she 
was involved. A great deal of money, an extraordinary 
amount of beauty, a bit of talent and a colossal impudence 
made her invulnerable. If Roberta bobbed her hair to¬ 
day, to-morrow would find seven out of ten girls of her 
acquaintance at the Ritz barber shop. 

“How could you, Roberta?” Eva asked. “Your won¬ 
derful hair.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Roberta said. “It looks just as 
wonderful now, doesn’t it? ‘The Castle Clip.’ My only 
regret is that I didn’t think of it before Irene Castle. 
Isn’t that annoying? Oh, well, we don’t travel in the 
same set, so I guess it doesn’t matter much. And think 
of the advantages. No hairpins. No trouble to keep it 
neat. Just run a comb through it and you’re finished for 
the day. And every time I’m with a man and we see 
some woman with loads and loads of hair, I can say ‘that’s 
the way mine used to be before I cut it.’ Oh, hello there, 
Eleanor, how do you like it?” 

“It looks great,” Eleanor said. “Seems to fit you ex¬ 
actly. You know, expresses your personality. A sort of 
outward sign of freedom, so there won’t be any mistake 
about the inside you.” Roberta laughed. 

“That’s it. ‘So that all who run may read!’ Roberta 
Burton, a free spirit. Why don’t you cut yours off? I’ll 
take you around to the man who did mine. He’s awfully 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


81 


good. And if he thinks you won’t look well with short 
hair he refuses to do the job. He’s a real artist. He used 
to be a barber, he told me, but he felt the call of art, so he 
went into a hair-dressing place. He really works over his 
clients the way Sargent works over a painting. He’s 
Spanish, and frightfully intellectual. He knows all about 
the latest literary movements in Spain, and he’s an inti¬ 
mate friend of Benevente. He told me some of the most 
amusing stuff about the Spanish writers. Guess what his 
name is? Pomado. Isn’t that a perfect name for a hair 
dresser? 

“Oh, and listen. When he was a barber he used to work 
in the Brevoort and he shaved a lot of celebrities. One 
of his customers was Dunne Bradford, that fat little art 
critic on the Star , and Pomado says they used to go on 
drinking parties together, only he had to stop, because 
Bradford couldn’t carry his liquor and disgraced him in 
the eyes of the bartenders.” 

“He sounds fascinating,” Eva said. “I must go there 
to get my hair washed. Could you get me an appointment 
with him, do you think?” 

“Well,” Roberta thought for a moment, “I suppose so, 
but don’t you think it would be much better if I went and 
told you about him? If we both go it won’t be nearly so 
entertaining. I hate to be selfish but I really need him in 
my act.” 

Eleanor looked at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. 

“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I hate to, but I must. Let 
me come again some time, will you?” 

“Come any time you like,” said Eva. “We probably 
won’t ask you again, ’cause we’ll take it for granted that 
when you’re ready to come again you’ll say so.” 

“Say,” exclaimed Roberta, “I think I’ll have a party 



82 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


some night next week, for some Washington people who’ll 
be here. Probably Tuesday. I’ll get some boys from 
school and a couple of others that are floating around. 
Want to come down? It’ll probably be amusing.” 

“I’d love to. Let me know what night you decide on, 
I’m pretty sure I can make it.” 

4 

Out in the street Eleanor felt exhilarated, excited. The 
way she always felt after being with Ted Levine. Oh, it 
was wonderful to discover that there were people like that, 
perfectly normal people, not queer or eccentric, who led 
regular lives, and yet who had a kind of aliveness to them, 
who seemed to be doing the things they did because they 
wanted to, and not because somebody told them to. To 
belong to themselves and not to a system. That was the 
whole point of everything. What was the good of being 
alive if you didn’t belong to yourself? She would belong 
to herself, must belong to herself. Ted Levine had once 
told her, she recalled, that if she once pinned her mind on 
a thing, she got it. And now Eva, who obviously was a 
person who knew about such things, told her that the only 
way to get what she wanted was to fight for it. Make it 
happen. She wondered what Eva’s struggle had been. 

Well, she would make it happen. Nobody owned her, 
but herself. She’d have that for a fixed idea, and nothing 
else would matter. She was glowing, and full of a sudden 
strength. She walked over towards Fifth Avenue, at its 
most beautiful in the soft dusky haze of the October twi¬ 
light. She stood at a corner, waiting for a Riverside Drive 
bus to come along. Several passed but they were all 
filled and didn’t even stop. Eleanor opened her purse and 
counted her money. Yes, she had enough to take a taxi 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


83 


home. It was a frightfully extravagant thing to do, and 
her mother would be furious if she knew, but somehow she 
couldn’t bear the idea of dissipating her glorious mood in 
the crush and struggle of an elevated train or a subway. 
She’d have to fight so hard for the mere privilege of stand¬ 
ing on her two feet and holding onto a strap that there 
wouldn’t be anything left of her fine, high courage. It 
would all ooze out at her heels. 

She hailed a cab and was soon jerking unevenly along 
the Avenue reveling in her exaltation, swishing around in 
it, letting it flow over her completely, like a warm bath. 
It was just as physical as that, and just as gorgeous, this 
feeling. But like a warm bath, it would get cold if she 
stayed in it too long without turning on the water. The 
feeling had to be kept alive. 

It was easy to keep it alive after they got out of the 
traffic jam on the Avenue, and sped through the park. 
The curious buzzing sound of the tires on the asphalt 
driveway seemed to sing it, and the lights reflected in the 
lake seemed to twinkle it. High, high. Such a wonderful 
feeling. She hardly knew why. It was impossible to ex¬ 
plain. If you had asked her why she felt that way she 
would have answered only “because I am going to be 
free.” 

“Free? What do you mean? Free from what?” It 
couldn’t be explained. “I don’t know. Just free. Be¬ 
longing to myself. Not part of a system.” 

As the taxi approached her neighborhood, the exaltation 
began to slip away. She wondered what her mother would 
say when she came in. It was awfully late for her to be 
out, especially when Mrs. Hoffman didn’t know where 
she was. She’d only spoken to the maid when she phoned 
up to say she’d be late. Mrs. Hoffman liked the girls to 



84 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


be home when she got back from an afternoon of shopping 
or bridge, and she always made it a point to have all 
three of them waiting for Mr. Hoffman when he got home 
from business. 

“I never let Milton come home to an empty house. 
Nothing I’m doing is so important that I can’t stop in 
time to be home before my husband gets there. A man’s 
entitled to that much consideration in his own home. And 
the girls are always there to greet him when he comes in. 
He likes that. We’re a very united family, you know.” 

Now it was well after six, and Mr. Hoffman always got 
in punctually at five thirty. He would be there now, won¬ 
dering at her absence. And her mother would be there, 
angry. Muriel would be there, too, waiting to see what 
would happen. She wished she had never got them used 
to being home at a specified time every afternoon. That 
was the mistake. Part of a system. Well, no more of 
that. Still, it wasn’t going to be an easy job, getting out 
of that system. Even at the moment she was conscious 
of a sensation strangely like fear. Her mother would 
probably be looking out of the window, waiting for her to 
arrive. Perhaps she’d better dismiss the taxi at the cor¬ 
ner of Eighty-sixth Street and Broadway, and walk the 
rest of the way, as though she’d come from the subway. 

No, she wouldn’t do that. If she was going to assert 
herself she might as well begin at once and drive up to the 
door in the cab. 

Mrs. Hoffman was standing at the window when 
Eleanor stepped out of the cab. She rushed to the door 
and was waiting there when the elevator let her off at the 
fourth floor. 

“What’s the matter, has anything happened?” she ex¬ 
claimed as she opened the door for Elly, who bent rather 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


85 


automatically to kiss her. “I’ve been so worried, I 
phoned to Wallberg’s, I thought you might have been 
there, but Fay said she hadn’t heard from you all week.” 

“No, nothing happened,” Eleanor said lightly, “I went 
to tea with a girl from school and we got talking. I called 
up and told Katie I’d be late.” 

“Why, it’s nearly half past six. Your father’s been 
home nearly an hour. You know he likes you to be home 
when he gets here. Now, you know I don’t want you to 
think you can start gallivanting about, just because I 
consented to let you go to art school. I want you to 
remember that you’re still my daughter, and that I expect 
the same respect from you now as I always did. Do you 
understand?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right, then, now go in and let your father know 
you’re here.” 

Eleanor, going first to her room to remove her wraps, 
walked slowly down the hall to the library, where Mr. 
Hoffman was engaged with the evening paper. He didn’t 
hear her come into the room. She tiptoed across to his 
chair, bent over him and kissed the bald spot on the top 
of his head. 

“Hello, old man,” she said gayly, “you don’t seem petri¬ 
fied with fear at my non-appearance.” 

“No,” he smiled genially, “I wasn’t worried. It seemed 
a bit strange not to find you here, of course, but I knew 
you were all right. Your mother, though. . . . You 
shouldn’t do things like this to her. You know how she 
worries.” 

“Well,” said Eleanor a trifle petulantly, “she ought to 
get over it, then. I’m no infant, am I? I don’t see why 
I have to come and go on schedule, and I’m not going to 



86 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


any more, either. It’s just a matter of habit.’’ Mr. Hoff¬ 
man raised his eyebrows a trifle, smiled faintly and rather 
inwardly, and returned to his paper. 

“Oh, by the way,” Muriel said at dinner, “Gerry wants 
us to come to her house next Thursday night. She’s hav¬ 
ing a Hallowe’en party.” 

“I think that’ll be all right,” answered Elly. “But I’m 
not sure. One of the girls from school is having a party 
some night next week, and she’s asked me. I don’t think 
it will be Thursday, only if it is I’ll have to go to that.” 

“Who is this girl?” asked Mrs. Hoffman. 

“Her name is Roberta Burton,” Eleanor replied. “She 
comes from Washington. She’s awfully nice. I was at 
her house this afternoon for tea, although I wasn’t really 
visiting her.” 

“Is her family here in New York?” 

“No, she’s here with another girl, Eva Gerrard. She’s 
a Washington girl too.” 

“What do you mean, you were at their house? Are 
they staying with relatives here?” 

“No, they have an apartment together on Forty-ninth 
Street, near Madison Avenue, near school. They both 
have lots of money. It’s an awfully cute apartment.” 
Mrs. Hoffman’s face grew red. 

“You mean to say that two young girls live alone in an 
apartment, without a chaperone? Downtown on Forty- 
ninth Street?” 

“Yop.” 

“I never heard of such a thing. It’s disgraceful. What 
kind of girls can they be, I’d like to know?” 

“Why, they’re lovely girls. Terribly clever and self- 
reliant. They’re kind of important socially in Wash¬ 
ington.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


87 


“A lot you know. Important socially. How can you 
tell? People can get awa/ with anything when they’re in 
a strange city. If they’re so important socially it seems 
mighty funny to me that their parents allow them to live 
alone in an apartment that way. It looks mighty queer 
to me. I don’t like the idea of your going there. God 
knows what might have happened to you in a place like 
that. Were there any men there?” 

“Oh, mother, don’t be silly. It’s horrid of you to talk 
that way about people you don’t know. Don’t you give 
me credit for any sense? I tell you, they’re lovely girls, 
as nice as any you’ve ever known. I’m darned pleased 
that they even notice me.” 

“Of course, call me silly. Your mother’s always silly. 
Naturally she couldn’t learn anything about life in forty- 
two years, but you know all about it in eighteen. I tell 
you I don’t like to have my daughter mixed up with girls 
like that.” 

“Girls like what?” 

“Girls who live in apartments alone. It’s not right. I 
tell you. Just mention one single girl of our acquaintance 
who would dream of doing a thing like that. Can you 
imagine any nice Jewish people allowing their daughter to 
go gallivanting off alone and live in an apartment with 
another girl? They’d die first.” 

“That has nothing to do with it. I suppose there might 
possibly be a Jewish girl somewhere in the United States 
who was going to school in a different city from the one 
where she lived. Then she’d have to live somewhere, 
wouldn’t she?” 

“Certainly, but she’d live in a dormitory, or a girls’ 
club, or with a private family, somebody well recom¬ 
mended. Not alone in an apartment with another girl. 



88 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Anyway, I don’t approve of girls going away to school. 
Girls belong at home where their mothers can look after 
them. Anyway, that is all aside from the point. The 
point is that I don’t want you to be going around with 
a lot of strange people. What do I know about these 
girls? Even if they aren’t doing anything wrong in that 
apartment, and I’ll admit they might not be, I don’t 
care to have you associating with them. They’re not 
your kind. For the life of me I don’t understand why 
you can’t be satisfied with your own kind. Why is it that 
people who are good enough for your mother and father 
and sister, can’t be good enough for you? Answer me 
that?” Eleanor was silent. She was afraid to speak. 
There was such a lot to say to that question, but she 
didn’t know exactly how to say it, and, besides, she didn’t 
want to antagonize her mother any further. Mr. Hoff¬ 
man filled in the pause. 

“You can’t expect her not to make some new associa¬ 
tions, Laura,” he said in his most soothing voice. “Now 
she’s in a new atmosphere it’s only natural that she’ll meet 
new people. That doesn’t mean she isn’t interested in 
her old friends any more, does it, Elly?” 

“Of course not.” She shot him a grateful glance as she 
replied, her voice faintly sharp. “But I don’t see why 
I can’t make new friends if I want to.” 

“Well,” put in Mrs. Hoffman, “I suppose that new at¬ 
mosphere is making an impression on you, but you’ll find 
in the end that old friends are the best. Look at Muriel, 
what a good time she’s having, and nothing but her same 
old crowd from Sunday School and high school. She 
doesn’t go off picking up all sorts of strange people to go 
around with. I wish to God you were normal, like other 
girls. You’ll have me in my grave with worry yet.” 



WHO WOULD BE EREE 


89 


“Come, come,” said Mr. Hoffman, “that’s enough of this 
subject for the present. Let’s talk about something else 
now. How about going down to the Strand to-night, all 
of us? I hear there’s a very good picture there this 
week.” 

“But, father,” said Eleanor, the sharpness in her voice 
intensified, “I want to . . .” Mr. Hoffman patted her 
hand with exasperating finality. “Sh, sh,” he said. “No 
more now. We’ll settle it some other time.” Eleanor 
stamped her foot. Muriel giggled. Mrs. Hoffman grew 
red. They all left the table. 

“We’d better get ready now if we’re going,” Mr. Hoff¬ 
man suggested. “It’ll take half an hour to get down 
town.” As they dashed down the hall to their room, 
Eleanor protested to her sister. 

“Doesn’t he use unfair methods?” she said. “He’s 
really worse than she is, because you know where you 
stand with her, and just what to expect. He fools you 
by pretending to help, when all he cares about is to get 
everyone shut off.” 

“Peace at any price,” said Muriel. 

“That’s just it, you have that attitude too. But it’s not 
real peace when you get it that way. You only choke 
people off and get them quieted down for a while, but 
all the feeling stays inside them, and it’s worse the next 
time.” 

“Oh, well, I don’t know why you should care. You 
always get everything you want, anyway.” 

“Do you really think so?” 

“Sure. You got to art school, didn’t you? And you’ll 
go to that party next week, too. You just wear ’em out, 
the way the Allies are trying to wear out Germany. A 
kind of private war of attrition. Well, I guess it’s a good 



90 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


way if you have the patience. I prefer my way. You 
get the same results with less commotion.” Mr. Hoffman’s 
voice came down the hall, at the door. 

“Come along girls, aren’t you ready yet? You know I 
don’t like to sit very far back, my eyes aren’t as good as 
they once were.” 



CHAPTER VI 


i 

Eleanor went to the party at Forty-ninth Street. Her 
going was not accomplished without a considerable 
amount of wrangling, but she did go. There were several 
times when she found herself on the verge of giving in; 
moments when the scorned doctrine of peace at any 
price semed highly desirable. No party could be worth 
all that fuss. Life itself was scarcely worth it. The 
discussion of the previous evening came up again every 
time school or anything connected with school was men¬ 
tioned. Mrs. Hoffman was no more willing on Tuesday 
than she had been on Friday, that Eleanor should go. 
She could see no reason why it was necessary for her 
daughter to go outside her own set for her amusements. 
They were good enough for Muriel, why weren’t they 
good enough for Eleanor? 

The fact still remained that Eleanor went. Not pre¬ 
cisely the way she wanted to—her father took her down 
to Forty-ninth Street and arranged to call for her again, 
those being the conditions upon which his own consent 
was contingent—but nine o’clock Tuesday night found 
her stepping into the dim warmth of the apartment living 
room. Mr. Hoffman, wishing to be tactful, left her at 
the downstairs door, waiting below until she was safely 
inside. He would be back at eleven-thirty, he said. 

“Here she is,” called a voice from somewhere on the 
low divan, where several people, she couldn’t quite tell 
how many, were grouped in a rather tangled fashion, while 
91 


92 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


several more were sprawled on the floor at their feet. 
“Put your things away in the bedroom and then come out 
and meet some people.” The voice belonged to Roberta 
Burton. Eva was nowhere in the room. 

“Don’t mind my not getting up, will you?” Roberta 
called. “I’m wedged in so tight here I can’t move.” 

“No,” Eleanor answered, “it’s all right, I’ll manage.” 
In the bedroom she found powder and rouge and a lip¬ 
stick. She applied the latter rather heavily to her mouth 
and dusted her face lightly with the powder. The rouge 
she left severely alone. Funny, she should hate the idea 
of rouged cheeks the way she did, and be so thoroughly in 
favor of rouged lips. 

“But it’s not quite the same thing,” she thought. “Face 
rouge is vulgar, and lip rouge just accentuates your fea¬ 
tures. Like a shadow in a drawing.” A last hasty 
glimpse of herself in the mirror satisfied her that she 
looked all right, and she went back into the living room. 
She moved rather shyly. It was an ordeal, this meeting a 
roomful of strange people, particularly with such an in¬ 
formal hostess. Eleanor’s activities had taken her so little 
outside her own groove that it was still somewhat difficult 
for her to meet new people. So she moved slowly and 
with perceptible hesitation. But there was nothing in her 
slowness or hesitation that revealed her shyness. It 
looked more like the leisureliness of extreme poise, of a 
strong and unshakable assurance. 

She stood in the doorway, the light from the tiny hall 
shining down on her red gold hair. Her dress was of 
velvet, a green so dark that it was almost black, with long 
tight sleeves, a wide skirt and a close fitting bodice which 
had an edging of fine lace at its square neck. With the 
accentuated red of her rouged mouth and the deep pallor 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


93 


of her face in the half light, she was quite lovely. She 
had a strongly developed, if not as yet recognized sense 
of dramatic values, and it was a deeply concealed instinct 
rather than an accident that framed her there in the 
doorway for the edification of Roberta’s friends. 

“You look lovely,” said Bobbie, fulfilling her obligation 
as hostess by sitting up on the divan. “People,” pointing 
to Eleanor, “this is Eleanor Hoffman, who has been my 
sole topic of conversation up to her arrival. Do you 
wonder I talked about her? Eleanor,” with a vague, all- 
inclusive wave of the right arm, “this is my gang. I could 
be English and not tell you their names, but it’s always 
seemed like a dirty trick to me. So I’ll begin here at my 
right. This emaciated looking young man is Tubby Mar¬ 
shall, Princeton ’17. I’ll give you the salient features 
about these people; I always do to newcomers, it saves so 
much embarrassment, like asking a Harvard man if he 
goes to Yale. Over there in the corner, sitting aloof, is 
Tubby’s roommate, David Horace Buddington Lane, com¬ 
monly known as Bud. At my feet, reading from left to 
right are Ruth Barclay and husband, Dickie Barclay of 
Washington, D. C., and Margery Thayer of Baltimore. 
There’s nothing interesting about them except that they’re 
my friends. This,” patting the shoulder of the man on 
her left, “is Henry Wells of New York and the Morning 
Star , and next to him is Stanley Miller of the same paper. 
Hank should be working, but he’s on a story in this neigh¬ 
borhood, and he dropped in for a while, ’cause I told him 
I had a beautiful new girl up my sleeve.” 

“For God’s sake, Bobbie,” Henry Wells said, “have a 
heart, can’t you. Don’t you see that you’re fussing the 
girl? You seem to forget this is her first time in this gang 
of barbarians.” 



94 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“You seem to forget whom you’re talking to,” Bobbie 
replied blithely. “Shut up and let me finish this job. 
This one here is Billy Tracy, from school. You’ve seen 
him around, haven’t you?” She went on as Eleanor indi¬ 
cated that she had. “Eva’s out to the store with Tom 
Berry. He’s from school, too. You know, that red¬ 
headed boy in the life class, the one whose ties Mr. Carver 
always likes so much?” 

Elly knew him too, and said so as she sank to the floor 
on a pillow provided for her by Bud Lane, the boy in the 
corner. The others on the floor separated just enough for 
her to cram into a tiny area at Roberta’s feet. It wasn’t 
exactly a formal way to approach a new crowd, but at 
least it served to dispense with stiffness. Eleanor was a 
little distressed. She had a feeling that she was expected 
to say something clever. But apparently she wasn’t, or 
at any rate she didn’t have a chance, for Roberta went 
right on talking. 

“Is it time for you to dash around to the Biltmore, 
Hank?” she asked the lanky reporter from the Morning 
Star. “I have such a sense of responsibility about my 
friends. I’d hate you to miss the story and get fired, 
’cause then you’d be hanging around me all the time.” 

“No,” replied Wells, covering a yawn with a huge hand, 
“the meeting isn’t over until eleven, and I’ve got Kelly 
on the Gazette watching things for me. He’ll call me here 
if anything important breaks.” Eleanor, sitting on the 
floor between the youthful Mrs. Barclay and Bud Lane, 
who had forsaken his corner, looked at Henry Wells and 
Stanley Miller with an interest approaching eagerness. 
Reporters on a New York paper! She’d been reading 
about reporters for ages, beginning in her childhood with 
the ones in Alger books, who always saved the poor young 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


95 


newsboy from going unjustly to prison, and ferreted out 
the real criminal. And later there had been such books 
as The Clarion and The Gentleman from Indiana and 
the Gallagher stories of Richard Harding Davis himself, 
typifying to Eleanor the newspaper man, a magical glam¬ 
orous sort of being, a modern knight errant, always doing 
brave things and having thrilling adventures. And hand¬ 
some. Newspaper men were always handsome. Of 
course there had been movies, too, in which the young 
reporter, a cub, gets the big scoop, rescues the girl re¬ 
porter, who is actually the publisher’s daughter in dis¬ 
guise, from a gang of crooks, and marries her in the last 
reel. Not that Eleanor had actually believed these things. 
It wasn’t that, but there was in her mind, nevertheless, a 
definite picture of what a newspaper man should be, and 
both these young reporters most rudely disarranged that 
picture. 

There was nothing glamorous about either of them. 
Henry Wells was an extravagantly tall man, exceedingly 
pale, with red hair and a few large, pale freckles scattered 
over his rather vacant countenance. Stanley Miller was 
very dark, of medium height, with bright darting black 
eyes and a small dark mustache. He was good looking 
in a sleek oily sort of way, something like villains in the 
movies. Where his wrists showed below his coat sleeves 
Eleanor could see a heavy growth of black hair. An in¬ 
voluntary shudder went through her when she looked at it. 

Miller was dressed with rather more care than Wells, 
but neither was marked by any especial fastidiousness. 
On the contrary, Eleanor noted that they were slightly 
grimy as to collar and cuffs. The only truly distinguish¬ 
ing mark of the newspaper man about them, as Eleanor 
was to learn somewhat later, was the funny kind of hats 



96 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


they wore—made of tweed, with a band and bow of the 
same material, and a ludicrously turned-up brim. Later, 
when Eleanor had occasion to visit newspaper offices and 
see newspaper men she discovered that nearly all of them 
wore these funny tweed hats. It seemed to be a badge of 
the trade. 

At the moment, however, she was in ignorance of their 
hats. She regarded them thoughtfully and admitted her¬ 
self disappointed. Not in their looks alone, but in their 
attitude. It seemed wrong—out of her picture, that they 
should be so indifferent about the story. She wanted to 
know more about it, so she conquered her reticence and 
spoke. 

“What kind of story is it?” she asked Hank Wells. 

“Oh just a dinner in honor of some darn fool judge. 
It’s really of no importance, only there’s a chance that one 
of the speakers might cut loose with a few cracks at the 
governor. We had a tip that he might and in that case 
the story’s good for a half a column or so. But it’s an 
awful bore.” Then, turning to Miller, “I’m sick of the 
assignments I’ve been getting lately. Nothing but these 
meetings. I’m going to kick to McDonnell. Jesus, any 
cub could be doing what I’ve been handed for the past 
month. I wish I had the guts to get out of this business.” 

“Oh,” from Eleanor in a shocked voice, “you mean you 
don’t like it?” Miller answered for him. 

“Sure he likes it,” he said, “we all do. You’ve got to 
like it or you can’t stick it, it’s such a rotten business. No 
money—why any office boy in a bank gets as much as a 
reporter—no thanks, no glory, except for about one out 
of every hundred—no future. So you see, you’ve got to 
like it or you’d get out. Wells is crazy about it, he’s just 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


97 


crabbing now because he’s had a run of rotten assign¬ 
ments.” 

“Oh,” said Eleanor, forgetting in her interest to be self- 
conscious, “this is certainly a revelation to me. I’ve never 
met a newspaper man before, and I’ve had all my ideas 
about them from fiction and the movies.” Like a flash, 
Wells thrust out his long, lean arm, and clasping her hand 
in a tight grip, began to shake it vigorously, grinning 
widely as he did so. 

“Allow me to thank you,” he said with mock formality. 
“You have restored my faith in human nature. I owe 
you an everlasting debt.” Eleanor laughed. The others 
looked inquiringly at him. 

“Why?” she asked. 

“Because, my dear Miss Hoffman, you meet a news¬ 
paper man, admittedly for the first time in your life, and 
you talk with him for ten minutes without once saying 
‘your work must be so fascinating,’ and ‘you must meet 
such interesting people.’ Lady, you’re the first person 
I’ve ever met who didn’t say those two things to me.. 
And I thank you.” He bent low and kissed her hand. 
Eleanor’s pale face showed a faint trace of color. 

“The trouble with these newspaper men,” said Dickie 
Barclay, “is that they’re always talking about themselves. 
They think everybody in the world is interested in their 
darn shop talk.” 

“Most people are, unfortunately,” said Miller. “We’d 
like to talk about something else once in a while, but no¬ 
body gives us a chance.” 

“Well, as far as I’m concerned,” said Dickie cheerfully, 
“you can shut up forever. You don’t hear me clamoring 
for it, do you? And I don’t talk business all the time,, 
either.” 



98 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Why should you, darling,” put in his pretty wife. 
“Everybody knows you’re only in your father’s bank be¬ 
cause you have to be or starve. We can’t live on our 
youth and beauty.” Dickie threw a pillow at her. “Aw, 
shut up,” he said. 

“Here comes Eva,” said Roberta, detecting footsteps on 
the stairs. “I didn’t realize how long she’d been out.” 
Eva and Tom Berry came in breathlessly, laden with 
packages from the delicatessen store, and laughing in little 
gasping bursts. 

“It’s simply unbelievable,” squealed Eva. “Someone 
must have done it for a joke. Oh, hello Eleanor, you got 
here all right.” She deposited her bundles in the kitchen¬ 
ette, and came back into the room, holding aloft a little 
red book, distinguishable in no way from hundreds of 
other little red books. 

“Look,” she said, “we found this in that little second¬ 
hand book shop around the corner. It’s simply wonder¬ 
ful. An Actress’ Crime , or All for Name and Gold. 
That’s what kept us so long. We started to read it over 
there, but it seemed a pity to deprive you of it, and so we 
bought it for a dime. I felt like a thief for taking it at 
that price. It’s worth millions. Listen,” and she turned 
to the table of contents. “Listen to some of the chapter 
titles: 

“Chapter one, ‘a child of the wreck.’ Chapter two, 
‘she is beautiful enough to be any man’s plaything.’ Chap¬ 
ter five, ‘henceforth our paths in life lie in different direc¬ 
tions.’ Chapter nine, ‘as a married man you have no 
right to make love to me’—that’s a good one, isn’t it? 
Chapter twenty, ‘I will yet bring him to my feet—I swear 
it!’ Oh, it’s too wonderful. It can’t be real, someone 
must have been spoofing.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


99 


“Don’t be a nut, Eva,” Tubby Marshall said, “I bet 
that was one of the most popular novels of the nineties. 
Let me see it.” She tossed the book to him. “Sure,” he 
said, looking through it, “it’s copyrighted in 1900, the 
author certainly was prolific. She wrote millions of other 
books. They must have been grand. Temptations of a 
Great City, Lured from Home, Because of her Love for 
Him, etc., etc. I’ll bet the etceteras were wonderful.” 

“Let’s hear some of the story,” said Billy Tracy. “That 
ought to be good if the title and the chapter heads mean 
anything.” 

“For the love of Mike, don’t read it aloud. I hate to be 
read to. It’s a sign of mental weakness if you enjoy it.” 
This from Bud Lane. Eleanor shot an appreciative look 
at him. 

“I hate it, too, as a rule,” she said. “This is a kind of 
fun, but ordinarily it’s an awful nuisance. Like playing 
bridge. Do you think bridge is stupid, too?” 

“Yop. That is, for me it’s -stupid. I guess it’s all 
right for them as likes it. What I mean is, I don’t want 
to pass a law against it, or anything. Only it seems rather 
dumb to me.” 

“How do you happen to be down to New York in the 
middle of the week?” Elly asked. 

“Oh, we cut a couple of afternoon classes and came 
down. We’ll drive back late to-night. Tubby’s got his 
car. We don’t do it often, but we just felt sort of low 
and wanted amusement, and we knew we’d get it if we 
came here. Great girl, Bobbie. Eva’s good, too. You 
never do anything at their fool parties, but you always 
have a good time. Why haven’t I met you here before?” 

“I’ve only known the girls a month. We’re in a couple 
of the same classes at art school. They were there last 



100 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


year, but it’s my first term. They’ve been terribly nice 
to me.” 

“They ought to be,” said Bud. “Do you ever come up 
to Princeton?” 

“I’ve been there for football games occasionally,” 
Eleanor said. “Do you know Ted Levine? He’s a junior. 
An awfully good friend of mine. I sometimes go to games 
with him.” Yes, Bud knew him. Slightly. They didn’t 
trail with the same crowd. 

“He’s a clever sort of guy, but a bit eccentric. He has 
quite a following among the highbrows. I guess I’m a 
little too boneheaded for him.” Eleanor laughed. She 
didn’t know exactly what to say. She supposed the thing 
to do was to assure him that he wasn’t a bit boneheaded, 
but somehow that seemed silly. So she said nothing at 
all. 

“I may not get a chance to ask you this later,” Bud 
said, bending near her, “so I’m going to now. May I call 
you up next time I’m in town? Will you have lunch with 
me, or tea or something?” 

“I’d like to,” said Eleanor. “I think it would be lots 
of fun.” 

“Put your phone number down here, will you?” And 
he handed her a tiny black leather book, opened to the H 
page. Elly smiled. “Aren’t you clever,” she said, writing 
her number in the book, “you’ve remembered my last 
name all evening.” 

“May I take you home?” he asked. 

“Oh!” Eleanor remembered with a start. “My 
father’s coming for me at eleven-thirty. What time is it 
now?” 

“Quarter past ten. What do you mean, your father’s 
coming for you?” Eleanor smiled. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


101 


“My mother thinks that everyone she doesn’t know is 
villainous, and that all taxi drivers are white slavers in 
disguise. And the only condition on which I was per¬ 
mitted to come down here at all, was that my father should 
deliver me and call back for me. Silly, isn’t it?” 

“Perfectly idiotic,” agreed Bud. “Go in there and call 
up your father and tell him that he needn’t come down 
for you. Tell him that we’re all going in the same direc¬ 
tion, and we’ll drop you at your house. I bet he’ll be 
glad. If he’s home now he’ll hate to come all the way 
down here again. C’mon, try it. I’ll go with you.” 

“I don’t think it’ll be much use,” Elly said, “but I do 
hate to think of the poor dear coming all the way down 
again when it’s so unnecessary. All right, I’ll call him.” 
Bud scowled. 

“Is that your only reason for doing it? Don’t you 
want to go home with me?” 

“Of course, that will be very nice.” Together they 
went into the bedroom to telephone. Mr. Hoffman him¬ 
self answered the phone. 

“Dad,” said Eleanor, “I just called to tell you that you 
needn’t come down to call for me. A whole lot of the 
people here are going uptown, and they’ve been nice 
enough to say they’ll take me home.” 

“Good work,” cheered Bud at her elbow. 

“No, several of them,” she repeated in response to a 
question from her father. “It’ll be quite all right, really. 
It’s so silly for you to come all the way down here for 
nothing. Please! I assure you I’ll be taken care of. . . . 
No, I won’t come home too late. . . .” She nodded en¬ 
couraging to Bud. . . . “Is mother in bed? ... I 
thought so. . . . All right then, now don’t worry, please.” 



102 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“There,” she said, hanging up the receiver, “that was 
easier than I thought it would be.” 

“I knew it would be a pipe,” Bud said. “You don’t 
suppose he was looking forward to the idea of coming 
down here again, do you?” 

“But, really,” she said, “I’ve got to get home reason¬ 
ably early, because if I don’t there’ll be an awful row 
in the morning and I’ll never get out again.” 

“All right, I’ll take you any time you say. We don’t 
have to wait for the others. I just wanted a chance to be 
with you a little more. This darn place is so small a 
fellow can’t have any privacy. Gee, I could say an awful 
lot to you if I got a chance. You’re the most interesting 
girl I’ve ever met. Really. And I’ve met a lot of ’em.” 
Eleanor laughed. 

“How do you know I’m interesting? I’ve hardly said a 
word all evening.” 

“That’s just it, I’ve been watching your face. Espe¬ 
cially your eyes. Gosh you have wonderful eyes. So 
mysterious. I’d like to know what’s going on behind 

them. What do you think about all the time? When 
you think nobody’s watching you you get the strangest 
expression on your face.” Eleanor smiled. She didn’t 
know what to say, so she smiled. 

“There.” Bud pointed at her face. “There it is now. 
Now I dare you to tell me what your were thinking just 

then. That mysterious smile of yours. Just like the 
Mona Lisa. Has anyone ever told you that before?” 

Yes, a few people had, Elly admitted. She wondered 
whether any man ever thought of anything else to say to 
any woman. And she wondered, too, what Bud would say 
if she told him what she was really thinking when the 
mysterious smile played over her face. Suppose she were 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


103 


to say: “I’m smiling for the perfectly simple reason that 
I have nothing to say to your remark. I don’t know how 
to answer compliments, really. Should I say thank you, 
or should I say, Oh, Mr. Lane, or what? I honestly don’t 
know what to do, so I smile. That seems to cover every¬ 
thing.” 

But there was no sense in doing that. He wouldn’t 
believe her, anyway, and besides if it pleased him to think 
her mysterious, so much the better. It saved her a lot 
of trouble. It was a beautiful way to get out of doing 
things you didn’t want to, or committing yourself to any¬ 
thing, or admitting your ignorance about a subject. All 
you had to do was to smile mysteriously. The other 
people did the rest. 

“I’ll get behind that smile some day,” Bud said. 
“You’re a fascinating little thing, do you know it?” 
Eleanor smiled. 

In the living room Hank Wells was clamoring for food. 

“Please give me something to eat before I go,” he said. 
“I renounced that ten dollar banquet for your sweet sake, 
now the least you can do is feed me.” 

“All right, in a minute, you poor starving creatures.” 
Roberta, moved to action at last, climbed over several 
people and went into the kitchenette. “Somebody’s got to 
help me,” she said. “Come along, Billy. Eva and Tom 
are exempt ’cause they went to the store, and Eleanor 
is company this once. Hank’s a working man so he’s let 
off. Let’s see, you come, Margery, you haven’t done a 
thing all evening. I won’t take Dicky Barclay or Ruth, 
they always break dishes. Bud, how about you?” 

“Nothing doing. I’m busy. Take Miller, he ought to 
work for his food.” 

“Come along then, Stan.” She went into the kitchen- 



104 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


ette, followed reluctantly by Miller and Billy Tracy. In a 
few minutes the boys came out with platters full of sand¬ 
wiches, Bobbie wheeled a tea cart laden with olives and 
pickles and little cakes and things to drink. Everybody 
took what they wanted. 

After eating about eight sandwiches and as many cakes, 
Hank Wells swallowed his third and final cup of coffee 
and went out to his neglected story. 

“Hope your illusions aren’t altogether shattered, Miss 
Hoffman,” he laughed as he said good-by to her. “Some 
day have lunch with me downtown and I’ll show you the 
Star city room. That’s altogether against my principles, 
but I feel I owe you something for not saying ‘what a 
fascinating occupation you have.’ Give me a ring at the 
Star any day at one-thirty, we’ll eat together. Don’t for¬ 
get, now.” 

No, she wouldn’t, Elly said. She wondered if that 
were his usual procedure, and decided that it must be, as 
nobody appeared at all surprised. She’d never called up 
a man in her life. Her mother had taught her not to. 

“Never run after any man,” Mrs. Hoffman always 
counseled. “Let them run after you. It never does a 
girl a bit of good to let a man know she likes him. And 
if you call them up they have no respect for you.” And 
that was quite true of the boys she knew. She’d heard 
them many times laughing about the girls who telephoned 
them at home or at their fraternity house. 

But these people seemed different. They were more 
casual in their relations with each other. If you had 
some reason for calling up a man you did, without sacri¬ 
ficing his respect. It didn’t, apparently, make him think 
you were chasing him. They seemed to regard each 
other as human beings, instead of dividing up into two 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


105 


antagonistic groups as men and women. And yet there 
was no attitude of not being interested in each other as 
men and women. Certainly Bud Lane was displaying 
more than a boy to a boy interest in her. She interested 
him as a girl, and it was easy to see that Tom Berry was 
crazy about Eva. As for Roberta, they were all more 
or less victims of her charms. No, they were just dif¬ 
ferent. Wonderfully different. She would call Henry 
Wells some time. There was nothing in the world she’d 
like so much as seeing a newspaper office. 

At half past eleven she asked Bud to take her home. 

“You know what I told you before,” she said. “I want 
to be able to do this again. And it may seem funny to 
you, but I had an awful time getting here to-night, and if 
I stay too late my mother will simply clamp the lid down 
again.” They left, Bud driving Tubby’s car. 

“Put this blanket around you,” he said, “then you won’t 
be cold. Look, must we go right straight home? 
Couldn’t we drive around for a few minutes? I don’t 
know when I’ll see you again, and I want a few minutes 
alone with you.” Eleanor demurred, but in the end he 
won, and before he dropped her at the door of number 
504 West End Avenue, they had driven up Riverside 
Drive as far as Inspiration Point. Bud gave evidence of 
slowing down, but Elly stopped him. 

“No parking here,” she said. “Really, I’ve got to get 
home. You understand, don’t you?” Bud smiled. 

“Yes, of course I do. We’ll go right away. You’re an 
awfully sweet little thing. I can’t believe that anyone 
can be as clever as you are and yet so unsophisticated. 
No, it isn’t that. That doesn’t sound right either. You 
are sophisticated enough, theoretically. I believe there’s 
nothing you don’t know, and still there’s something about 



106 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


you that makes me want to sort of take care of you. You 
seem to be sort of unpracticed. That’s it. Unpracticed. 
You make people want to be nice to you. To help you. 
Believe me, I don’t feel that way about many girls I meet 
nowadays. I wonder what it is in you? Do you know?” 
Eleanor shrugged her shoulders and smiled slowly. 

It was just a few minutes after midnight when they 
said good night at her door. 

“Good-by,” she said. “Thank you for bringing me 
home.” 

“Good-by, sweet thing.” He moved almost imper¬ 
ceptibly toward her. She moved almost imperceptibly 
away. 

“All right,” he said quite gravely, “I won’t. This time. 
But some other time I will. Good night.” He lifted up 
her hand and touched it ever so lightly with his lips, then 
turned and went back to the car. He got in, turned, 
waved at her and drove off. She went upstairs. 


2 

In their room Muriel was waiting for her with some 
interest. 

“Have a good time?” she asked sleepily, looking up 
from her magazine. 

“Yes, lovely.” 

“Meet any nice boys?” 

“Yop. Several. One of them brought me home.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“Lane. David Lane. They call him Bud ’cause one 
of his middle names is Buddington. He has a couple of 
middle names.” 

“Oh. Not Jewish.” 

“No. None of them was.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


107 


“Oh, mother was saying before she supposed they 
weren't. That's why she didn’t want you to go, I guess. 
She has a perfect horror of us getting friendly with Gen¬ 
tiles. Not that I'm likely to. I don't seem to feel com¬ 
fortable with them. What did you do?” 

“Do? Nothing. We just sat around and talked. I 
can’t remember anything special. Then we had some¬ 
thing to eat, and then I came home. This boy drove me 
up. He and his roommate are down from Princeton. 
He knows Ted.” 

“What did you have to eat?” 

“Oh, sandwiches and coffee.” 

“That all?” 

“Uh-huh. It's a little place, you know. Only two 
rooms. The girls made the sandwiches themselves and 
we all just grabbed what we wanted.” 

“H’m. Doesn't sound very exciting to me. G’night. 

“Oh, listen, Gerry’s party is formal. Wear your evening 
dress. Irving Houseman and his friend, Chester Adel- 
stein are coming to call for us.” 

“Night.” 

When she thought back over the evening it was hard 
for Eleanor to know just why she had enjoyed it so 
much. True, as Muriel’s unexpressed contempt had re¬ 
minded her, nothing had happened. They had just sat 
around and talked. Not even about anything particu¬ 
larly interesting or important. But just the same she 
had loved it, every minute of it. And how well she had 
fitted in with the people. Although they were new to 
her, not only as individuals, but also as a kind, she seemed 
to belong there, to be perfectly familiar in some internal 
way, with their ideas and their ways. She felt happy, 
right. These were people who lived the way she wanted 



108 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


to live. They were free in spirit. There wasn’t one 
among them who would rightfully come under her 
mother’s sneering and bitter classification, “eccentric”; 
they were all normal, as a matter of fact perfectly com¬ 
monplace people, only they seemed to be living according 
to some sort of individual plan, not according to a system. 
Just having been with them made her feel liberated. It 
was encouraging, because if these people, who weren’t par¬ 
ticularly eccentric or queer could live that way, there must 
be hundreds of people in the world outside her own who 
did. And she could, too. For a while she’s thought you 
had to have some special gift in order to live the way 
you wanted to, to break away from the pattern if you 
didn’t fit into it, but now she knew it was not as hard 
as that. No, the only hard part would be in the personal 
struggle to get away from the pattern. The pattern to 
which her mother and sister so naturally conformed that 
they couldn’t see why anyone else didn’t. 

She wondered about her father. He seemed to con¬ 
form to it closely enough now, but she thought she de¬ 
tected irregularities in the weaving around him, broken 
threads. His very readiness to understand, if not to con¬ 
done with her inadequately expressed desires, made her 
believe that when he had been her age or perhaps a little 
older, he had tried to break from the pattern. Poor dad. 
She couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him because he 
had failed. She wouldn’t fail. She would get away. 

She thought about Bud Lane. It was funny, his atti¬ 
tude. She supposed it would be hard for him to under¬ 
stand how near to the truth he’d been when he had called 
her unpracticed. She really was. She was eighteen years 
old, not in the least unsophisticated or “innocent” in the 
moving picture sense of the word, but she could count on 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


109 


one hand the number of times she’d been kissed, not in¬ 
cluding the silly little games the Sunday School crowd 
always played at parties. Really kissed by boys that she 
liked. The first time was that evening—how long ago it 
seemed, a million years—when she had promised Irving to 
wait for him. She’d been fifteen then. And it was all 
right to kiss a boy if you were engaged to him. So she 
had let him. She remembered now being rather disap¬ 
pointed. It hadn’t seemed very thrilling. 

And because it hadn’t seemed very thrilling it had been 
easy enough to obey her mother’s often repeated injunc¬ 
tion, “Never let a boy kiss you. They all like to try 
it, but if you let them do it they won’t respect you. You 
can’t be too careful. It’s awfully easy for a girl to lose 
her reputation. And once it’s lost you can never get it 
back.” 

She had believed all that. Every word of it. And she 
hadn’t let boys kiss her. Irving had once or twice again, 
before they quarreled about Ted Levine. And Ted. Of 
course he had kissed her. Not because he had a crush 
on her, or thought she had one on him. He’d taken pains 
to make that clear. But Ted was a masterful young man 
and girls were meant to be kissed. So he had kissed her. 
She had thought it strange at the time that she liked his 
kisses better than Irving’s, although she’d been awfully 
crazy about Irving at the time, and not at all crazy about 
Ted. He did it better or something. But even then she 
hadn’t found it particularly thrilling. Ted knew it, too, 
and was annoyed, but he never tried to kiss her again. 

Then there was that time at Fay Wallberg’s New Year’s 
Eve party when Jim Wallberg, Fay’s cousin, had cornered 
her in the hall and kissed her quite disagreeably. Jim 
was older than the others by several years. 



110 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“You little devil, you,” he’d said under his breath, “I’ve 
always wanted to kiss you ever since I’ve known you. 
You have such a soft little mouth.” She struggled and 
squirmed but he held her frightfully close and kissed her 
again. Of course she might have screamed, but somehow 
she couldn’t. Some instinct told her that in situations 
like these the only thing is to submit and get away as 
quickly as possible. She knew without being told or ever 
having experienced it, that people would think she’d en¬ 
couraged him, wanted him to kiss her. So she remained 
there quietly, making herself as rigid as she could in his 
arms, and keeping her lips tightly shut under his mouth. 

“You’re a cold little devil, aren’t you?” Jim had said. 
“I could thaw you out, though, if I had the chance. No 
girl has ever had a mouth like yours and been really cold. 
You’re just a smouldering volcano.” 

Then there had been a noise down the hall. Someone 
was coming, and he let her go. She ran to Fay’s bedroom 
to fix her hair where he had mussed it. 

She had not washed her mouth with soap, or anything 
like that, although, according to tradition that would 
have been the thing to do. But she had been frightfully 
annoyed by it, and the experience, while it did not scar 
her young soul, did not increase her interest in the subject 
of kissing. It was, she had long since come to the con¬ 
clusion, an occupation greatly overestimated. She wanted 
no credit for being an unkissed girl. It wasn’t a matter 
of virtue triumphant, although it was but recently that 
she began to suspect that maybe her mother’s point of 
view might be open to argument. She just wasn’t in¬ 
terested. Bud Lane had called her unpracticed. He had 
wanted to kiss her, but had refrained, because she called 
out some protective instinct in him. That, it seemed to 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


111 


Elly, was a rather big asset. She was beginning, now 
that she had definitely determined to get free of her 
mother’s system, to discard subsconsciously a great many 
of the theories she had more or less accepted without ques¬ 
tion. The first faint stirrings of an experimental tendency 
made themselves active in her mind. There were things 
she wanted to know about. She’d never known any boy 
really well since Irving’s interest in her had waned. 
There’d been nobody to interest her even faintly except¬ 
ing Ted Levine, and he lived out of New York. Anyway, 
he was away now at college. 

She’d always had boys enough to take her to parties and 
to dance with and to go to matinees and football games 
with, but there’d been little or no lovemaking, even of 
the mildest sort. They were so seldom alone together, 
these boys and girls of the Temple set, and other parallel 
sets. Elly was only now beginning to realize how abso¬ 
lutely shut in she had been all these years. She wanted 
to know. Of course she had always wanted to know about 
abstractions, but now she found herself wanting to know 
about concrete things. What made Bud Lane have that 
feeling about her? Was he only one who would feel that 
way, or would other men want to take care of her too? 
She must find out. Oh, there was a whole world of things 
that she must find out about. Everything. 



CHAPTER VII 


i 

Geraldine Nussbaum’s Hallowe’en party on Thursday 
night brought Eleanor in contact with her old friends for 
the first time in several months. It was rather a large 
party. When she and Muriel arrived, about thirty people, 
most of whom Eleanor had gone to Sunday School or 
Wadleigh with, or whom she had met at Delta Omega 
teas, or something of the sort, were dancing around the 
polished floor of the magnificent living room of the Nuss- 
baum apartment on Riverside Drive and 76th Street. 

The girls were rather late, but it was not their fault. 
Chester Adelstein the friend Irving Houseman brought 
along to call for them, had arrived at Irving’s house fifteen 
minutes after the appointed time, and added to that there 
had been some sort of traffic delay. Chester Adelstein 
didn’t mind, he said. 

“It never hurts to keep a girl waiting,” he told Irving. 
“She’ll have some respect for you if you do. I don’t 
believe in humoring girls. Let’ em know you’re no poor 
fool for them to play with and you’ll really get some¬ 
where with ’em.” 

Chester who was in Irving’s class at Columbia Law 
School, was the son of one of the wealthiest and most 
widely known lawyers in New York, in the country even. 

In a year Chester would enter the offices of Adlestein, 
Mendolson, Harris and Adelstein, and start from the bot¬ 
tom. There was to be no favoritism shown. No ad- 
112 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


113 


vantages, because he was the chief’s son. Of course, if 
he progressed very rapidly he would be promoted accord¬ 
ingly, and with a father like his it was fairly safe to assume 
that he might progress more rapidly than the ordinary 
law clerk. At least that was the way Chester felt about it. 

His father was exceedingly generous. Chester drove 
his own car, had charge accounts in every shop and restau¬ 
rant in town as well as a generous allowance. His father 
didn’t approve of stinting the boy. He would some day 
be the sole controller of a pretty big fortune, and it was 
well to let him know how to spend money. Not that they 
were snobs. Not at all. Why, hadn’t he sent Chester 
to public high school? 

Chester had borrowed his mother’s town car for the eve¬ 
ning. It was a trifle chilly for his open Cadillac, and, 
besides, a town car would make more of an impression on 
a girl, and Chester was determined to make an impres¬ 
sion on Eleanor. He had heard quite a good deal about 
her, and the things he had heard had fired his imagination. 
She was a queer girl, several people had told him, but 
clever, awfully clever. And cold as ice. Never suspect 
it to look at her, either, with her red hair and that mouth. 
Still lots of fellows had tried to make love to her, and she 
hadn’t even seemed to recognize the symptoms. Yop, a 
cold proposition. 

That was what Chester liked. He loved the idea of 
meeting this cold proposition and warming her up. He 
wanted to show people how mistaken they were about her. 
Cold? Just until she met the right man. 

“I’m charmed to meet you,” he said formally to the two 
girls when Irving introduced them. “I’ve heard so much 
about you both. Shall we start right away? I’m afraid 
I’ve kept you waiting. Sorry, I’m sure.” 



114 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


They left at once. Chester helped Eleanor into the car, 
leaving Muriel for Irving. He spoke to the chauffeur. 

“Go on, James. You have the address.” James did 
not answer. He merely touched his visored cap. 

“One of the few servants,” Chester said, “who really 
knows his place. We never have to discipline James. 
He’s perfectly aware that he is a servant and acts accord¬ 
ingly. I don’t believe in this business of democracy 
when it’s brought right down to the servants. They can’t 
be as good as we are or they wouldn’t be our servants. 
And James knows that.” He settled himself into the 
deeply upholstered seat with an audible sigh of satisfac¬ 
tion. 

“How lovely that his name is James,” said Eleanor. 

“Why, what difference does it make?” 

“Oh, lots of difference. It’s no particular fun to say 
‘home, Oswald,’ or ‘home, Harry,’ but it must be loads 
of fun to say ‘home, James.’ Don’t you giggle every time 
you say it?” 

“No,” replied Chester, somewhat disapprovingly, “I 
can’t see anything very humorous in that.” Muriel 
squeezed Elly’s hand in the dark. 

It took only about ten minutes to reach the Nussbaum 
apartment. Gerry herself flew to answer the bell when 
they rang. 

“Well, I thought you were never coming,” she ex¬ 
claimed, kissing Muriel and Eleanor. “What on earth 
kept you so long?” 

“It wasn’t our fault,” Muriel said, “the boys came late. 
We were ready for them, weren’t we, Elly?” 

“I’ll bet a million dollars,” Gerry declared, “Chester 
w r as at the bottom of it. He thinks it’s clever to be 
late.” Chester glowered, and made no reply. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


115 


“Oh,” squealed Gerry, as the girls removed their 
wraps, “what marvelous dresses! Where did you get 
them?” They did look rather lovely, both of them, 
Muriel in her pretty, wholesome girlishness, appropri¬ 
ately gowned in rose taffeta, round as to neck and bouffant 
as to skirt, with garlands of tiny rosebuds appliqued 
upon it at intervals, and a delicate wreath of them in her 
brown wavy hair; Eleanor most effective in brown lace 
over a shimmering gold foundation, with an orange chiffon 
girdle whose ends almost trained the floor. 

“That sash is just the color of your hair,” Gerry ex¬ 
claimed. “And so appropriate for Hallowe’en. C’mon 
inside. You don’t need any powder yet. The girls are 
just dying to see you.” 

The girls flocked around Eleanor. Once she had been 
their leader, and if she no longer was, they were still 
devoted to her in a way, and excessively curious about her 
new activities. 

“How’s art school?” 

“Is it hard? Are you sorry you didn’t go to Training 
School? Don’t you miss Muriel frightfully?” 

“Any nice fellows there? Lots of Gentiles, I suppose. 
Pretty soon you’ll be getting too swell for your old friends. 
What’s new, anything?” This last with a significance as 
strong as though the actual words had been spoken. 

“For the love of Pete,” Eleanor said, laughing, “how 
can I answer all those questions at once? Art school’s 
wonderful, I’m crazy about it and I’m tickled to death I 
didn’t go to Training, even though it does seem funny 
to be without Muriel. There are lots of nice boys there, 
but I don’t know any of them well yet. You have to 
work pretty hard to keep up with your classes; it’s no 
snap, believe me, and you don’t get much of a chance 



116 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


to fool around with the people. I did meet a couple of 
awfully nice girls, though, and I’ve been to their apart¬ 
ment—it’s a kind of studio—a couple of times.” 

“Jewish?” asked Hilda Adler. 

“Nope.” 

“Oh,” rather flatly. 

“Let’s dance,” called Jim Weisskopf from across the 
room. “C’mon somebody, put on a record.” He walked 
over to the phonograph and chose a record himself— 
“Underneath the Stars,” a sweet and sentimental fox trot 
hit. Chester walked over to where Eleanor was sitting 
and claimed the dance. 

“This is a lovely record,” he said. “Come and dance 
with me. This is our first dance together and I predict 
that we will have many more.” They danced well to¬ 
gether, although there was nothing extraordinary about it. 
Chester held her quite close and she found after a time 
that his right hand weighed rather heavily upon the base 
of her neck, where he held it. 

Chester talked while he danced. 

“At last!” he said, dancing down the long hall with 
her. “Do you know that I’ve wanted to meet you for 
more than a year?” 

Eleanor smiled. 

“Did you want to meet me?” he asked. 

“Well I couldn’t very well, I only heard about you 
two nights ago.” Chester stared at her. 

“You mean to say you’ve never heard of me before?” 

“Oh, I knew there was such a person as Chester Adel- 
stein, but nobody has ever spoken about you to me, that’s 
all. Is that so strange?” Chester drew himself up. 

“So many people knew I was interested in you,” he 
said, “that I think it is rather strange that they never 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


117 


said anything to you about me. I suppose even if they 
had you’d never admit it. Girls think they have to be 
that way.” 

Eleanor smiled. 

“Don’t be tiresome,” she said. “If I’d heard about you 
I’d admit it. I always admit everything. I always say 
what I mean and mean what I say. If you’ll accept that 
as the basis of our acquaintance we’ll get along beauti¬ 
fully.” 

Oh, then she was interested in him. She must be, or 
she wouldn’t speak that way. “The basis of our acquaint¬ 
ance.” That must mean she expected to continue seeing 
him. That was good. She certainly was an attractive 
girl. Worth conquering. 

“Let’s sit down here for a while,” he said, leading her 
to an alcove down the hall. “I want to talk to you with¬ 
out a lot of people coming around, and interrupting us.” 

“All right. What do you want to talk about?” 

“You, of course. Do you know that you have the repu¬ 
tation of being very cold?” 

“Have I? I didn’t know it, really.” 

“Well, you have. And I’m glad. I don’t like girls to 
let fellows get fresh with them. Nice girls don’t. But 
just the same I don’t believe you’re really cold. You 
couldn’t be with that flaming hair and that warm mouth. 
No! It’s just that you haven’t met the right man yet. 
I know your kind. Like ice until they meet the right 
one, and then, oh boy! Why, you’re just a smouldering 
volcano.” 

Eleanor smiled. A reminiscent light came into her 
eyes. Hadn’t she heard that before somewhere? Didn’t 
men ever think of anything else to say? 

“What’s the joke?” asked Chester. “I can’t see any- 



118 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


thing funny about it. You are a smouldering volcano, 
some day you’ll see.” 

“I think we’d better go back inside,” Eleanor said. 
“You know, I haven’t seen these people for a long time, 
and I really want to be with them a little.” He rose, 
somewhat unwillingly, and they returned to the living 
room. 

“Oh,” shrieked Hilda Adler, “where have you been? 
Are you vamping Chester? Better look out for her 
Chester, she’s dangerous.” Eleanor flushed with annoy¬ 
ance. She loathed the word—vamping—a newly coined 
expression that had come into popular favor along with a 
moving picture siren of the moment. It had not yet be¬ 
come a casual part of the language, and its sound was 
ugly to Eleanor. However, she did not answer, and 
moved away from Hilda, whose shrill voice clung to the 
subject. 

“Look at her,” she cried, “blushing. I must have been 
right.” Chester glared as though he would annihilate 
her. 

There was more dancing, a great deal of activity, and 
a quantity of talk about clothes and conquests among the 
girls, football and conquests among the boys. 

“And she just ran after him like a crazy fool!” Hilda’s 
voice, happy in its medium, gossip, shrilled on. “He 
practically had to leave the city to get rid of her. She 
called up his house and he got his mother to answer 
and say he was out, and then she’d leave her name. 
Absolutely shameless. The poor fool. I’d like to know 
who she thinks would ever marry her after that?” 

“ . . . squirrel’s better. I think seal is too old for 
you. After all, you’re only a young girl once. Why 
should you try to look like an old woman?” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


119 


. . Really think they’re going to announce their 
engagement soon. How about it, Fay? Everybody’s 
talking about it. Why don’t you tell us. C’mon.” Fay, 
quite lovely in her tall, slightly exotic way, smiled signifi¬ 
cantly. 

“I really can’t say anything about it just yet. Noth¬ 
ing’s been settled. But . . 

“But you are going to. You needn’t say another word. 
When you going to announce it?” She smiled, acknowl¬ 
edging the defeat for which she had so gracefully man¬ 
euvered. 

“Oh, well, I might as well tell you, but don’t tell any¬ 
one else. We’d rather not let it get public yet. As soon 
as he comes back we’ll announce it.” 

“How about the stage?” asked Eleanor. 

“Oh, I suppose that’s out now. I always thought I 
wouldn’t marry until I was about thirty, so I could have 
my career first. But I guess you just say that to your¬ 
self in case you never marry. It’s a good alibi.” 

A maid announced supper. Gerry got up, dropped a 
set of little cards into a Ruskinware bowl and another set 
into its mate. 

“Now,” she said, “the girls pick a card out of this 
bowl, and the boys out of that one. Fit the names to¬ 
gether, and you’ll find your supper partner.” 

“Ooh,” screamed Hilda Adler, the first to grab a; card, 
“I’m Juliet. Isn’t that romantic? Who’s Romeo? Oh, 
my God,” she groaned as her brother waved his card at 
her. “Put it back and pick another. I can’t go to the 
table with you.” 

Amid a great deal of laughter and excitement the busi¬ 
ness of picking partners was gone through. And at the 



120 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


end, after a little skilful manipulation among the boys, 
everybody got the girl he wanted. 

“Oh, gee,” wailed Gerry, “that’s no fair. Just what 
I try to avoid, having the same old people sit together. 
Just as though you were married.” 

“You’re crazy,” said Irving Houseman. “If we were 
married we wouldn’t want to sit together, would we, 
Muriel?” Her answer was lost in the stampede for the 
dining-room, which was dimly lighted, and decorated with 
jack-o’-lanterns, black cats and leering skulls. Festoons 
of orange crepe paper hung from the chandelier to the 
table, in the center of which was a huge paper pumpkin, 
with orange ribbon trailing from its middle to each of the 
thirty-four places. 

“Doesn’t it look stunning!” exclaimed the girls. 
“Gerry always gives such wonderful affairs.” 

“Pull your ribbons,” commanded Gerry excitedly, and 
there was a great yanking from all sides. The paper 
pumpkin gave way at the top, and opened up like a flower, 
disclosing the souvenirs of the occasion. 

There were flat leather match cases with gold corners 
for the boys, and tiny gold powder cases, monogrammed, 
for the girls. Excited shrieks greeted them. 

“How cute! ” 

“How perfectly adorable.” 

“Oh, Gerry, they’re marvelous!” 

Then rapid consumption of food. The supper was 
elaborate. Mrs. Nussbaum was noted for the excellence 
of her parties. This supper was a catered one. It began 
with fruit cocktails, served in scooped out grapefruit 
skins, cut into the shape of baskets, with real handles. 
Then there was a kind of mousse made of salmon, very 
rich and delicious, and every conceivable variety of sand- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


121 


wich, on tiny pieces of bread, cut into fancy shapes. There 
were salted nuts, of course, and olives and things like 
that, and chicken a la king after the sandwiches. Mar¬ 
velous ice cream in forms and French pastry, with cof¬ 
fee for those who wanted it. There were all kinds of 
soft drinks during the meal, but no suggestion of any¬ 
thing intoxicating. Drinking was an unheard of thing 
in that set and at that time. 

Elly sat between Chester Adelstein and Ben Adler at 
supper. Directly across from her was Muriel, apparently 
very much engrossed in Irving, who seemed, in return, 
to be quite taken with her. It occurred to Elly for the 
first time that there was a growing intimacy between her 
sister and the boy with whom she’d fancied herself in 
love only five years ago. How funny it would be if they 
actually got married. And wouldn’t the crowd talk! Not 
that it would matter. 

“A penny for your thoughts,” Chester Adelstein said, 
as Elly sat gazing speculatively at Muriel. She smiled. 

“You wouldn’t find them a bit interesting.” 

“I would if they were about you,” he said. 

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Eleanor replied, “they 
weren’t. They were about my sister.” 

“Oh.” He shrugged and made a little face. “Then 
you needn’t bother telling me. Not that I don’t like your 
sister,” he hastened to add, “but I don’t find her stimu¬ 
lating, the way I do you. You’re an awfully interest¬ 
ing girl, do you know that?” 

“Yes,” she said, “I know it.” He stared at her. 

“You hate yourself, don’t you?” 

“I can’t see what that has to do with it,” Eleanor 
argued. “You tell me I’m interesting and ask if I know 
it. I do, so why should I be coy and pretend I don’t? 



122 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


I simply won’t bother to be something I’m not; it’s too 
much trouble.” 

“You’re refreshing,” said Chester in a lofty tone. “It’s 
rather amusing, but I don’t know that I should care for 
such a point of view in the girl I make my wife.” 

“Well, you’re not going to make me your wife, so that’s 
all right.” 

“Oh, you can’t tell. I’m not sure I will want you, but 
I might, and so far I’ve always been able to get what I 
wanted.” 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Eleanor, “this is a very in¬ 
teresting conversation, and I don’t mind admitting that 
I’m enjoying it, but I think it might be a good idea to 
continue it some other time, because in a minute Hilda 
will crash in with something that’ll probably be annoying. 
I can tell by the way she’s looking at us out of the corner 
of her eye.” 

They had been at the table nearly two hours when they 
finally went back into the living room to dance again. 
Chester tried on several occasions to get Eleanor back 
into the little recess in the hall to continue their talk, but 
each time she had to dance with someone else, or speak 
to someone else. Chester sulked. Just like a girl, he 
thought. If she thought that increased her value in his 
eyes she was very much mistaken. No girl could treat 
him that way. 

On the way home he asked her when he could come to 
see her. She didn’t want to make a date with him right 
then, because she had an idea that Bud Lane might come 
down for the week end, and she wanted to be able to see 
him if he called. She felt pretty sure he would call her. 

“Oh, give me a ring some morning,” she said, “I don’t 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


123 


leave for school until quarter past nine. We can make ai 
date for that night.” 

“Not I,” said Chester, “I’m always dated up at least 
two weeks in advance.” 

“I’m not. I think it’s silly. I like to be ready for 
the nice unexpected things when they come along, even 
though they usually don’t come.” 

Muriel and Irving lingered over their good night. 
Eleanor could see that they wanted to kiss each other, but 
there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it. 
She would like to have told them simply to go ahead, but 
she didn’t think that would serve. So instead, she hurried 
Muriel away. 

“Come along, I’m cold,” she said. “Sleepy, too. So 
long, Irving. Good night, Mr. Adelstein.” 

Chester held her hand. 

“Good night. It has been very interesting, meeting 
you.” His tone shifted from an exceedingly formal one 
which sounded to Eleanor almost as though he had re¬ 
hearsed the lines, to one filled with significance, as he 
added: 

“You’ll hear from me.” 


2 

The girls walked through the hall to the elevator in 
silence. Chester had wanted to ride upstairs with them, 
insisting that it was the correct thing to do, but in the 
end, they’d gone up alone. 

“My God,” Muriel giggled, as they rode upstairs, “what 
a pill.” 

“Yes, he is funny,” Eleanor agreed, “but he interests 
me.” 

“Anyone would who fell that hard for you at first 



124 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


sight,” admitted Muriel. “You do get the funniest men, 
really. One freak after another. Ted Levine and this, 
and a whole bunch of other lemons. How is this one 
you met last night, queer, too?” 

“No. I don’t think so. But you might not agree. I 
don’t think Ted’s a lemon.” 

“I know it. Do you know, I believe you’re secretly in 
love with Ted.” Eleanor grew red. It wasn’t true, but 
it made her blush. 

“Don’t be silly. He’s the last person in the world I 
could fall for, but I do admire him very much. How 
about you and Irving, by the way?” It was Muriel’s 
turn to blush. 

“I don’t know. He seems pretty fond of me, and I 
think he’s wonderful. You don’t care about him any 
more, do you?” 

“No. Take him with my blessings. Think you’ll get 
engaged?” 

“Probably next spring. But don’t say anything to 
mother yet.” 

“No.” They unlocked the door as gently as possible, 
but Mrs. Hoffman, who was in bed but not asleep, heard 
them, and called. 

“Did you have a good time, children?” she asked. 

“Wonderful,” said Muriel, and Eleanor said “yes.” 

“My, but you’re enthusiastic,” was her mother’s com¬ 
ment. “What did they serve?” She was told, exclaimed, 
asked a few more questions, and let them go. 

“I’m not a bit sleepy,” Muriel said, making tentative 
moves toward a conversation and confidential seance, “are 
you?” 

“Yes,” said Elly, “I’m dead tired. And I have to get up 
awfully early in the morning.” She didn’t as a matter of 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


125 


fact, and she wasn’t tired, but there were some things in 
the back of her mind, things that she had tucked away 
earlier in the day, and was keeping them for that delicious 
few minutes just after turning out the light. Now she 
was eager to take them out and look at them, play with 
them, the way you would with some bits of beautiful silk 
or colored beads with a lot of light in them. Eleanor’s 
thoughts always took a tangible form. Everything had 
color or line, or she could feel it, as though it were a 
fabric. 

Now in bed, these precious things came tumbling out of 
her mind, one by one and mixed up with each other, just 
like bolts of gay silk being unwound and flung across a 
counter, or strings and strings of amber gleaming on her 
arm. 

School. Her new friends, Eva and Roberta. Tues¬ 
day night’s party. The newspaper men. Oh, she mustn’t 
forget to call up that tall one, what was his name? She 
did want to see a newspaper office. Bud Lane. He was 
a dear. Unpracticed. He’d called her unpracticed with 
the tenderest note in his voice when he said it. . . . 
Chester, who had challenged her ... A pill, yes, Muriel 
was right, but she was going to have a date with him just 
to find out some more. 

That was it. She was going to find out everything 
from now on. She was going to experiment. How could 
you ever know anything about living if you didn’t experi¬ 
ment? She must experiment, but she mustn’t get tripped 
up. Oh, no, she mustn’t fall in love with any of these 
people she experimented upon, because that would inter¬ 
fere with her freedom. And that was the most important 
of all. She must get free and stay free. She cast about 
in her mind for some way of putting the intense feeling 



126 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


that had hold of her, and all she could find were trite 
phrases. “I want to live my own life.” “I want to call 
my soul my own.” Both phrases somewhat in discredit, 
outworn, utterly humorless. She suddenly knew the rea¬ 
son. They were trite because they were so literally true. 
What else could you say about the way she felt than that 
you wanted to call your soul your own? She tossed in 
bed, and grew more and more excited. Thoughts whizzed 
around in her head until it ached. She twisted and turned 
and made a noise. Muriel grumbled. 

“For the love of Pete,” she said, “get settled. If you’re 
so sleepy why don’t you go to sleep?” Elly didn’t 
answer. She wished she had a room of her own. Muriel 
was all right, but she wanted to be alone. Involuntarily 
came the thought of what her mother would say if she 
ever asked for a room of her own. 

The thoughts chased themselves around in circles. Bud. 
Chester. Ted. How did he get there? Certainly he 
had nothing to do with the past few days. Oh, yes, she 
had spoken to Bud about him. She wondered how he 
was. She felt exhilarated now, just as she used to feel 
after an evening with him. Suddenly an idea came to 
her. Maybe she’d better keep a diary. Important 
things were happening to her, and there should be some 
record of them. Maybe she’d be a writer some day, and 
then these things would be valuable. It would be nice 
to be a writer. Then you’d have some use for the results 
of your experiments. Another thing, if you were going 
to be a writer it justified anything you might do. You 
had to Live in order to write well. 

She got out of bed and fumbled about in the dark for 
her bathrobe. As quietly as possible she tiptoed down the 
hall to the library, where, after hunting for a few minutes 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


127 


she found an old blank book with some high school 
botany notes in the first few pages. Carefully she tore 
out the notes and wrote on the first page, The Diary of 
Eleanor Hoffman, New York, October, 1916. Then on 
the second page she wrote the date for her first entry. 

October 27. She paused, biting the end of her pen. 
It was cold in the library; the steam in the radiator was 
dying for the night with a series of loud gurgling raps. 
It was hard to hold on to the mood of exhilaration. She 
wrote: 

This is the first time I have ever made a record of my 
thoughts and feelings, but I intend to continue doing so 
from now on. Nobody will ever see this diary, so 1 can 
be perfectly frank and strictly honest. I will begin with 
last night when I met Bud Lane. His real name is David 
Horace Buddington Lane and he is a senior at Prince¬ 
ton. I like him very much. 1 think he is going to get 
a crush on me but 1 am not sure. He started to kiss me 
last night but stopped when he saw 1 didn’t want him to . 

She paused again, and read what she had written. 
It didn’t look very interesting. Something seemed to go 
out of her the minute she tried to get the thoughts on 
paper. Somehow they eluded her efforts to catch them. 
None of the excitement and color that she felt found its 
way into her sentences. Maybe it was because she was 
cold. She guessed she’d stop for the present, and try 
again some other time. 

That’s all for now, she wrote. I will come back to you 
again, diary. Apostrophizing the diary that way made 
her think of something. Once she had gone home to 
study algebra with Marie Scott, a very pretty and popular 
girl in her class in Wadleigh. They had studied a little 



128 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


while, and then Marie had talked to Eleanor about her 
love affairs. It seemed she had a great many. At the 
time she was in the midst of renouncing an Italian artist. 
She was keeping a diary, and after getting Elly to 
swear she’d never breathe it to a soul, she had let her 
look at the diary. There was a complete record of each 
of her affairs with frequent references to “Diary dear,” 
and “oh, beloved diary.” And several letters she had 
written were copied into the records. Eleanor had said 
nothing at the time, but she had laughed inwardly at 
“diary dear.” That had seemed awfully funny, and 
somehow she couldn’t quite feel that Marie’s record was 
kept just for herself. Sure enough, she had learned later, 
in talking to some other girls, that Marie had shown them 
the diary,—each one alone, and each one with the same 
oath not to tell about it. 

That incident was suddenly very clear in Elly’s mind as 
she looked at what she had just set down. Something 
happened inside of her. She ripped the page from the 
book and tore it into small pieces which she threw into the 
waste basket. After they were in the basket she bent 
down, picked them out and burned them. She put the 
book back where she had found it, and went shiveringly 
back to bed. 

The excitement was gone, and the gayly colored 
thoughts, too, but other thoughts came to take their 
place. She wouldn’t keep a diary, after all. She’d simply 
have to remember the things that happened to her. 
Apparently, they lost their magic when you tried to take 
them out of your head and put them on paper. 

That settled that, then. No diary. In a little while 
she was asleep. 



CHAPTER VIII 


i 

School was coming to mean more and more to Eleanor. 
The work, while she did not have a passionate interest 
in it, was eminently satisfactory. It was something pleas¬ 
ant to do that she did quite naturally, and with more 
than the ordinary amount of skill, although there was 
nothing in it to suggest a potential genius. She liked to 
draw; she had a nice feeling for line and color, she had a 
touch of originality. Her instructors were pleased with 
the progress she was making, and said so. Even John 
Lyman Carver, who was sparing in his praise, dropped 
an encouraging word on a number of occasions. Eleanor, 
when these things happened, was transported. Her 
adoration for Carver continued in spite of Eva Gerrard’s 
insistence that he was insincere. 

She was rapidly fitting into a groove among the 
students, too, which helped. Eva and Roberta Burton, 
Tom Berry and Billy Tracy, and two or three other kin¬ 
dred spirits were in the habit of eating lunch together 
every day. After the party at Eva’s apartment Elly was 
automatically included in these lunches. Sometimes the 
boys would go out and bring things in, and they would eat 
in one of the vacant classrooms. More often they would 
go out to one of the innumerable tea rooms or coffee 
houses in the neighborhood. To Eleanor it didn’t mat¬ 
ter. She was happy either way. Just to be with these 
people, who could talk so gayly over nothing and so ear¬ 
nestly over things that in her old crowd would have been 

129 


130 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


considered highbrow and pretentious, who were so relax¬ 
ing and yet at the same time stimulating to her mind, was 
a wonderful thing to her. 

And although she was the only Jew among them there 
was no feeling of restraint on her part. She thought of 
that often. Her life up to that autumn had been wholly 
Jewish in its contacts. She had known no Christians ex¬ 
cept a few girls in high school, and those quite casually. 

She’d never thought about it particularly. It just was 
that all the people she knew were, as her mother so fre¬ 
quently said, her own kind. She began to feel now that 
this was even more arbitrary on her mother’s part than 
she had suspected. Away from the closest influences 
of her life at home and with the Sunday School crowd, 
she turned instinctively to what appeared to her as her 
own kind. Something in her, something that had kept 
intact throughout the long years of the training her mother 
had given her, began to work its way to the surface of 
her consciousness. 

It wasn’t exactly new, the way she felt. She noted 
before the symptoms of her rebellion against the system 
of the West End Avenue aristocracy and all its numerous 
ramifications. She had realized long since that there was 
something inside her that involuntarily rejected a large 
part of the philosophy that was proffered her by her 
mother and Rabbi Goodman and all the people who rep¬ 
resented that side of existence. And there had always 
been Ted Levine, the living symbol of her “queerness.” 
Ted Levine and The Way of All Flesh. Of all the books 
she ever read, then or for the rest of her days, nothing 
ever came to mean so much as that one. She dated her 
thinking life with the reading of that book. It was the 
first thing to actually force her to wonder consciously 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


131 


about the pattern. Then Ted. The two together had 
done a great deal. But they had made her unhappy. 

That was the difference. This school crowd made her 
happy. Their very gayety and casualness helped her to 
get things straightened out in her mind. Ted Levine and 
Ernest Pontifex had harassed her while they made her 
think. It was she and they alone in an alien universe, so 
that often she felt that she and they must be wrong in the 
face of such solid wall of opposition. Now, however, she 
began to see that there was a universe of people who not 
only felt the way she felt about things, but who lived the 
way she wanted to live; people who did so, moreover, 
without being branded as queer or eccentric by the world 
at large. 

This knowledge gave her a great deal of courage. She 
could carry on her battle for the freedom of her spirit 
with a far lighter heart. After all, she found, there is 
something to the theory of safety in numbers. She talked 
at great length with Eva, who seemed to have an instinc¬ 
tive understanding of her situation, although she had 
never actually known any people of the Hoffman’s precise 
social place. 

“What you need,” she told Eleanor, more than once, 
“is to get away from home. I realize perfectly that that 
is terrible advice to give any girl, and your mother if she 
knew it would have me arrested for it. Just the same 
you’d be much better off. I don’t mean now, at the very 
moment, but later, after you’re out of school and are work¬ 
ing. I have a feeling that you’ll probably do awfully well 
after you’re out. Your stuff is getting to be quite distinc¬ 
tive, and in a couple of years more it ought to be great. 
Then you should cut loose. You belong alone. At least 
you belong out of the life you’re in now.” 



132 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Yes,” agreed Elly, “there isn’t any doubt of that. I 
never did get along very well in it. I’ve always wanted 
to live alone. Only it seemed too perfectly absurd to hope 
for it. If you could imagine the strength of our family 
life you’d understand. Why, do you know, that until I 
went to your house that first day, I’d never got home 
after my father in my whole life?” 

“Well,” Eva said thoughtfully, “I’ve always heard a 
great deal about the beauty of the Jewish home life, and 
the solidarity of the family.” 

“Yes,” she said, “that’s part of the act. It’s true 
enough, the family is solid, all right, but as for the beauty, 
I suppose that depends upon your point of view. Every¬ 
thing’s arranged in patterns. You have to fit into one 
of those patterns or else you’re all wrong. For a while, 
when I was still pretty small, I accepted all that. But 
when I got to be about fourteen or so, I began to wonder 
about it. It really started on the very day I was con¬ 
firmed in the Jewish faith. It worried me a lot then, but 
now it all seems very simple, and I think I can go ahead 
in a fairly straight line. Especially if I know there’s 
someone kind of with me, like you. They always said 
I was too stubborn and contrary and something tells me 
I’m going to prove them right.” 

2 

There was rather a fuss when the subject of Bud Lane 
came up. He did not come down the week end after the 
party, but he did come the following week end, and he did 
telephone her to ask if he might come to see her on Satur¬ 
day night. Without consulting her mother she told him 
to come. At dinner that night, quite casually she men¬ 
tioned it, ready for anything that might follow. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


133 


“I’m having company tomorrow night,” she said, “a 
boy I met at Eva Gerrard’s party.” Her mother looked 
up sharply. 

“What’s his name?” 

“David Lane.” 

“Jewish?” 

“No,” a shade defiantly. Mrs. Hoffman hesitated for 
a moment between an attitude of irritation and one of 
kindliness. She decided on the latter. 

“Now, Eleanor,” she said gently, for her, “what’s the 
idea? You know perfectly well, without my having to tell 
you, that I don’t like you to do a thing like that. We’ve 
talked this thing over before, and you know exactly how 
I feel on the subject of Gentiles.” Eleanor grew hot at 
the word. There was something almost venomous in the 
way her mother used it, as though it were an epithet. 

“I know that,” she said, “but I don’t feel the way you 
do about it. I think it’s very silly to think that the only 
nice people in the world are the ones who were born on 
the same street with you, and whose religious beliefs are 
the same as yours. And you don’t have to talk of them 
as though they were toads.” 

“It’s more than a matter of religious beliefs,” her 
mother argued. “I’m not particularly religious, and you 
know it. It’s just that I don’t feel comfortable with Gen¬ 
tiles. There’s a difference that can’t be described, but 
I feel it.” 

“All right,” Eleanor grew daring. “Nobody’s asking 
you to associate with them. But I don’t feel that differ¬ 
ence you talk about. As a matter of fact I feel a darn 
sight more comfortable with the particular Gentiles I 
know just now than I ever did with my own kind, as you 
call them.” Mrs. Hoffman raged. 



134 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Eleanor Hoffman 1 How can you sit there at your 
own table and say such a thing to your own mother? 
Have you no respect? Milton, why don’t you speak to 
her? Such a nerve. That’s what comes from letting her 
go to art school and get her head filled with a lot of stuss. 
What are you learning except to talk fresh to your parents 
and go against your religion?” Mr. Hoffman said nothing. 
Muriel sighed. 


3 

Nothing more was said up to the time of Bud’s appear¬ 
ance on Saturday night. He arrived at half past eight, 
bringing a yellow chrysanthemum and a box of Sherry’s. 
Yes, Elly admitted to herself, he was just as nice looking 
as the picture of him she’d carried in her mind. Tan face 
and quiet blue eyes, neat taffy-colored hair, parted in the 
middle, hints of dimples when he smiled, which he did at 
seeing her. She opened the door when he rang. 

“It’s nice to see you again,” he said. “You’re awfully 
good to let me come tonight. I thought probably you’d 
have a date, but I took a chance just the same.” 

“I don’t make dates very far ahead,” Eleanor replied, 
leading him to the hall rack, where he hung his things. 
“You miss out on so many nice things if you do that.” 

“I don’t know what you meant by that, but I’m going 
to take it as a compliment.” They were both smiling quite 
happily as Eleanor led him into the library where the 
family was assembled for an inspection of the Gentile. 

“Mother,” she said, “this is Mr. Lane. My mother, 
Bud, my father, and my sister, Muriel.” 

“How do you do,” said Bud gravely to Mrs. Hoffman. 

“How do,” replied Mrs. Hoffman rather shortly, in a 
voice that sounded angry, but which Eleanor knew was 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


135 


merely somewhat embarrassed. To fill the breach Mr. 
Hoffman crossed the room and put out his hand. 

“Glad to know you, sir,” he said cordially. “Have a 
cigar.” 

“Thanks,” said Bud, as he smiled and nodded to Muriel, 
in the far corner, “I don’t use ’em.” 

“Just as well.” Bud continued standing in the middle 
of the room. Eleanor looked anguished, Muriel amused, 
her mother worried and Mr. Hoffman quite happy. 

“Have a chair.” Bud sat down. “What do you think of 
the election?” 

“Oh,” replied Bud politely, “I b’lieve I’ll vote for 
Hughes.” 

“No, don’t do that. It’s not wise. Never change horses 
in the middle of the stream. Look at Wilson. He kept 
us out of war, didn’t he? And any man who keeps us out 
of this mess ought to be re-elected.” 

“The war is not over yet,” said Bud. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” went on Mr. Hoffman, warming 
up to his subject. “The danger’s over now. If we didn’t 
go in when the Lusitania was sunk, we’ll never go in.” 

“It’s a strange world,” said Mr. Hoffman. 

“Yes, it is,” said Bud. 

“It certainly is,” said Mrs. Hoffman. 

“Mother,” spoke Muriel from the comer, “before Irving 
comes I’d like to show you how I want Miss Wilkins to 
fix my gray dress.” As they left the room Eleanor shot 
her sister a look that was at once grateful and pleading. 
How to get rid of her father? It was funny the way he 
always took it for granted that the boys came to see him. 
Hints would never do. You had to blast him out! 

It wasn’t done very subtly, but then, thank goodness, 
with people like Bud you didn’t have to be subtle about 



136 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


such things. It was funny instead of being embarrassing. 
That was the nice thing about them. As she thought that 
Eleanor saw in a flash the difference between the Jews she 
had known, and Gentiles as personified by her new friends. 

“We have no social ease,” she thought, “as a class. No 
poise. That’s at the bottom of everything. I wonder?” 
She made a note to talk to Eva about that. Eva knew so 
much. 

“Mil-ton,” came Mrs. Hoffman’s voice, reverberating 
through the hall. “Commere a minute, I want you.” 

“See you later,” said Mr. Hoffman, as he responded to 
the call. “I’d like to get your real opinion about the 
war.” 

He was gone. 

Eleanor gave a comical sigh. 

“See what a hit you’ve made? But I can’t flatter you. 
He’s the same way with every new boy who comes to the 
house. He seems to think they only come here to discuss 
politics with him.” 

“Lots of girls’ fathers are like that. Well, now that 
he’s gone, let’s talk about something interesting.” 

“All right, what?” 

“You. Tell me all about yourself. I’ve been thinking 
about you ever since that night at Eva’s, practically all 
the time. Honestly. You’re such a strange girl.” 

“I’m not really strange a bit.” 

“Yes, you are. Mysterious, the way you look out of 
those eyes. So mysterious. I’d give anything to know 
what’s behind them, and what you mean by that smile. 
Won’t you tell me?” 

“Why not find out?” What was the use of telling him 
there was no mystery at all behind the eyes, and that the 
smile meant nothing in particular? 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


137 


“I mean to. And the only way I can find out is to see 
you a lot. Look. Will you cooperate with me to that 
extent?” 

“Yes. I like you, and I don’t see any reason why we 
shouldn’t see each other. Do you mind me saying that I 
like you? I mean, does it make you less interested in me 
because I admit I like you? Would you rather have me 
be coy and pretend I didn’t, or at least assume indiffer¬ 
ence. You know, make you work?” 

“No,” he said. “It’s only very inferior sorts of fellows 
who don’t want to have girls admit they like ’em. They 
like to chase. Not me. I like an interesting girl, and 
nothing you could consciously do or say would make you 
uninteresting to me. The fact that you are willing to 
start on an equal basis of admitting you like me, only 
makes you more interesting, because it shows you’re dif¬ 
ferent from most other girls. God, how I hate that 
Daphne stuff! Til run away and you run after me.’ 
Ugh! It makes me sick. That’s one of the things Tubby 
and I always include when we rate girls.” 

“You what?” 

“We rate girls. We keep a sort of chart of all the girls 
we know, and whenever we meet a new one, we add her 
to it. We keep it in a loose leaf notebook so it’s easy to 
put in new pages.” 

“What do you rate them on?” 

“Five separate counts, twenty points on each. Looks 
first, of course. Dancing. Personality. Brains. That’s 
divided into two parts—education and sense. Education 
doesn’t mean necessarily what school they go to, but how 
much they know about the things we’re interested in. 
What books they like, and all that sort of stuff. Then 
sense. That’s where this Daphne act comes in. Sense is 



138 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


really the biggest classification of them all, I mean it 
includes the most things. I can’t explain it, exactly, but 
Tubby and I have it worked out pretty well. We have 
quite a big space for that, and we mark down all kinds of 
annotations like if they giggle, or think it’s immoral to 
smoke, and stuff like that. Oh, it’s a great system.” 

“You’re pretty severe, aren’t you?” 

“Well, yes, but you have to be, really. It’s great in 
case of an emergency. If you need a girl for a party, 
why you have this sort of file index and you just read it 
over to see if she’ll fit in.” 

“It seems kind of horrid to me.” 

“It shouldn’t. You look at it wrong. Everybody I 
know keeps a chart. The girls, too. Eve and Bobby keep 
them. I bet you will too, now.” She smiled and colored 
faintly. 

“That’s only four counts,” she reminded him. “What’s 
the fifth?” He looked at her steadily for a moment. 

“S. A.,” still with his eyes on her. 

“S. A.? What’s that?” 

“Sex appeal.” Still he regarded her, rather inquiringly. 
The color in her cheeks deepened. Like “vamp,” the 
word sex was still quite new to Eleanor. She had not yet 
grown used to it as a commonplace of conversation, cas¬ 
ually mentioned, like dress or shoes or bread. It was still 
to her a word suggestive of unexplored, forbidden mys¬ 
teries, and its use by Bud came as a definite shock. She 
felt for an infinitesimal part of a second as though an icy 
spray had suddenly been turned on her, or as though she 
had pricked her finger with a needle. She hoped Bud 
hadn’t noticed it. She didn’t want him to think she was 
annoyed. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


139 


“Oh,” she said rather faintly, “how can you tell whether 
they have it?” 

“Oh, easy,” Bud replied. “You just get it. You feel 
it. It hits you. ’Course, one girl may not have it for 
the same two fellows, or sometimes she may. There are 
some girls who seem to have it for everybody. There’s 
no way to describe it. And you can’t always tell right 
off either. Some of ’em don’t seem to have any the first 
time you meet ’em, and then they turn out to have more 
than anyone else. And sometimes you get it very strong 
when you first meet ’em, and later it all goes away. We 
have to revise that part of the chart quite often. More 
than any other. The looks and the dancing and the educa¬ 
tion and sense usually stay more or less the same, but the 
s. a. is tricky. You never can tell about it.” 

“It sounds interesting. But isn’t it just another name 
for personality? Or charm?” 

“Nope. Personality and charm are mixed up in it, 
but they’re not it. I’ve known girls who were awfully 
sweet and charming and had a wonderful personality, but 
no s. a. And I’ve known girls who had an awful lot of s. a., 
and yet you couldn’t call ’em charming. It’s funny. Dif¬ 
ferent things ’ll get different people. I know a man in 
college who always gets it if a girl has red hair. It’s 
mixed up with something that happened to him when he 
was a kid. He had a crush on his teacher when he was 
about twelve years old, and she was a pretty girl with 
red hair. Once he did an errand for her and she kissed 
him for it and he got an awful thrill, and ever since then 
he’s been getting a thrill every time he sees a girl with 
red hair. He’d probably rate you the whole twenty on 
s. a. on account of your hair.” 

“My hair’s not red.” 



140 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“No, not exactly, but it’s near enough.” 

“Have you put me in your loose leaf notebook?” 

“Sure,” Bud replied, “right away. But don’t ask me 
what your rating is, because it’s against the rules to tell. 
You’re pretty high, though, I can tell you that. One of 
the highest I’ve ever had.” 

“That’s nice. But you can’t have any rating for me 
on education or dancing, because you don’t know anything 
about my taste in reading and you’ve never danced with 
me.” 

“I know it. Well, it usually takes some time before 
you can get on to the book part of it, and I was going to 
ask you whether you’d go dancing after a while.” 

“It would be fun. I’m not afraid to have you test my 
dancing. I’m pretty good.” She scanned his face eagerly, 
waiting for a comment. 

“I imagine you would be,” he said. “Where shall we 
go?” 

“Really,” she said, “you’re great.” 

“Why all the sudden enthusiasm?” 

“Well, when I said I was a good dancer you didn’t say 
‘you hate yourself,’ or anything blah like that. I like you, 
Bud, because I can be myself without having you think 
I’m crazy or pulling a line.” 

“That’s your whole charm,” he replied. “You are 
yourself. I’ll tell you who said that about you. Levine. 
I looked him up after I met you, and we got to talking 
about you. He told me that. He said you were a won¬ 
derful girl. He said you didn’t have a hell of a lot of 
humor about yourself, because you were too sincere, and 
sincere people can’t be humorous about themselves. He 
said your sense of humor about things was great, and 
about other people, but you were working too hard to 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


141 


get yourself free of something for you to have much hu¬ 
mor about yourself.” 

“You must have discussed me at great length,” Elly 
said, a faint chill in her voice. 

“Don’t get peeved ’cause I’m telling you this,” Bud 
said. “He didn’t say it in a critical way at all. He ad¬ 
mires you tremendously. In fact, I think he’s got a crush 
on you. He asked so many questions about how you 
looked and what you said about him and all stuff like 
that.” 

“Oh, no, he hasn’t got a crush on me. He knows me too 
well. He’s interested in me as a sort of pupil. It was 
Ted who first made me realize that I doubted the things 
they taught me in Sunday School, and it was Ted who 
first gave me the courage to refuse to be a teacher. I 
never could have done it without his help. How my 
mother hates him. Isn’t it funny, whenever people do 
something that their relatives don’t like, the relatives al¬ 
ways put the blame on somebody else. I would have come 
around to this sooner or later, but my mother firmly be¬ 
lieves that I never had a thought in any direction but hers 
until Ted put it into my head. She’s always saying how 
he influenced me. It never seems to occur to her that if 
my mind had been set in her direction he couldn’t have 
influenced me. It’s so illogical. At the outside it could 
only have been his influence against hers, and it certainly 
doesn’t speak well for hers, if his could overthrow it so 
easily.” 

“I know, but she doesn’t see it like that. That would 
be too painful. How about dancing?” 

“All right, let’s. I’d rather not go downtown, though. 
There are a couple of places near here that have very good 
music. You don’t care, do you?” 



142 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Not particularly, as long as the music’s all right.” 

“Let’s get ready, then, and you come with me when I 
go to tell my mother I’m going out. She’s a little awed by 
you because you’re not Jewish, and she’ll be less likely 
to make a fuss in front of you.” 

“Coward! I thought you were a free soul.” 

“I’m only getting free. It’s a long and difficult process. 
Come along now.” 

She was right. Getting out was comparatively easy. 
The knowledge that her mother would be waiting to settle 
accounts with her when she got back, somehow didn’t 
trouble Eleanor. Once they started dancing, everything 
else was overlooked. They danced perfectly together. 

“I knew we would,” Bud said, after they had swung into 
the first fox trot. “I’ll break all rules and tell you that you 
rate twenty on your dancing.” 

“So do you. I’ll start my chart with you.” 

He held her very close while they danced. She felt 
warm and glowing inside. Not excited, as contact with 
Ted had made her feel, but serene and very sure of her¬ 
self. When the dance was over and they returned to 
their table she was emboldened to ask a question. 

“Bud,” she said, her eyes dilated, “I want to ask you 
something.” 

“Fire away.” 

“I’m not trying to pry into your rating; I just want 
you to say yes or no. Have I any s. a.?” She didn’t mind 
saying the initials. That was easy. 

“Too darn much, if you really want to know,” he re¬ 
plied. “All the time I look at you I keep wanting to kiss 
you, and then you flash that ‘protect me’ look on me, and 
what can I do?” Elly laughed. 

“I don’t flash the look consciously,” she said. “It was 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


143 


born with me, and it doesn’t really mean a thing. So you 
needn’t pay any particular attention to that.” The words 
surprised her. They’d just slipped out. She wondered if 
he would interpret them as a challenge and kiss her later. 
She more than half hoped he would. 

He did. Not on the way home. In the taxi he ob¬ 
served the most rigid correctness, having a great contempt 
for “taxi-hounds.” He was rather quiet during the short 
ride to West End Avenue, but when Eleanor started to 
say good night to him at the outer door of the apartment 
he demurred. 

“Let me come up for a few minutes. I can’t talk to 
you here.” 

“All right. I’ll probably be killed, but I’m willing to 
chance it.” 

The elevator man was sleeping soundly, so they walked 
up the stairs. Halfway up the second flight Bud stopped 
at the window looking out to the court. 

“Eleanor.” He said it very low. She found herself 
suddenly in his arms, being kissed, tenderly. It was nice. 
She was quite silent, and altogether passive. Bud kissed 
her eyes, ever so gently. And her cheeks and her mouth. 
With a sudden movement she flexed her throat. She 
wanted him to kiss that too. He did, right in the little 
hollow where her pulse beat. That was the nicest of all. 

“My dear,” Bud said, “my dear.” Elly still said noth¬ 
ing, but stood quietly within his arms, strangely at peace, 
and smiling. He kissed her mouth again. A sudden noise 
from below sent them scurrying upstairs. 

“I don’t think you’d better come in,” Eleanor said, as 
she took out the key. “Mother’ll be waiting to read me 
the riot act, and you’ll only complicate matters.” 



144 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“All right if you say so. But I hate to leave you. Can 
I see you tomorrow ?” 

“Call me up about eleven o’clock. I’ll be able to tell 
better then. You sure you won’t get bored with me if I 
let you see me so much? Don’t you think I ought to keep 
you guessing a bit?” she teased. 

“No, silly one. You couldn’t bore me. Let me whisper 
something in your ear.” She bent her head. 

“I love you,” he whispered. A delicious hot current 
went through her entire body at the words. They had 
never been said to her before. 

“Good night,” she said patting his hand. “You’re a 
dear. Call me in the morning.” 

“Good night, dear.” 

Mrs. Hoffman was waiting up for her. Elly, knowing 
there was no use trying to get to bed without the inter¬ 
view, went straight into the library. By treating it matter- 
of-factly, she thought, she might be able to get away with 
it. 

“How do you like him?” she said. 

“He seems like a decent enough sort of boy. Kind of 
insipid looking, though. I don’t care for such fair haired 
men. They have no character, as a rule. I don’t par¬ 
ticularly like the idea of your going out with him. Where 
did you go?” 

“Lansdowne Terrace.” 

“Anyone you know there?” 

“Quite a mob. I saw the Friedmanns with that cousin 
that’s visiting them from New Orleans, and Dorothy 
Keller and her fiance and quite a few others.” 

“They see you?” 

“The Friedmanns did. I’m not sure about the rest.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


145 


“That’s nice. Now the whole temple will know that 
my daughter is running around with a Gentile.” 

“Well, what of it? I can’t see that it’s any of their 
business, but if you think it is, why all I can say is that 
they might as well get used to it.” 

“What?” 

“Yop. They might as well get used to it. And you, too, 
mother. You might as well resign yourself to the inevi¬ 
table. I’m going to have whatever friends I like, and if 
some of them happen to be Christians, I’ll have them, 
anyway. It makes no difference to me or to them, and 
after all, that’s the only thing that counts, isn’t it?” 

“You mean to stand there and defy me?” 

“Yes, as long as you insist. I could deceive you, of 
course, by pretending to do as you wish, and seeing my 
friends outside. But I won’t do that for two reasons. In 
the first place, that would seem as though I thought I 
were doing something wrong, and I’m not. In the second 
place, it’s too much trouble to deceive. I won’t do it.” 
Mrs. Hoffman was aghast. 

“How dare you speak that way to your mother? You’re 
a willful, impudent, disobedient girl.” 

“I know I’m willful. And I even admit that in this case 
I’m impudent and disobedient. But it’s your fault. You 
forced me to be. Listen, mother, you don’t own me. I’m 
not a piece of furniture that you can put anywhere you 
like and expect it to stay put. It’s just your tough luck 
and mine that I don’t happen to see things the way you do. 
And you think you can get inside my head and compel me 
to think as you think. Well, you can’t. My will’s as 
strong as yours; a little stronger, in fact, and the sooner 
you admit that to yourself the better off we’ll both be. I 
know I’m impertinent. I want to be. I’ve been saving up 



146 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


things to say to you for eighteen years, and here they are. 
You say I defy you, and I say yes. And I’ll keep right on 
defying you as long as I need to.” The storm of her own 
feelings overtook her, and she found herself suddenly 
sobbing. 

“You’ll be sorry,” Mrs. Hoffman managed to articulate 
between astounded noises that came from her throat, 
“you’ll be sorry some day for talking to me like that. 
Some day you’ll realize that your mother knew best, and 
you’ll regret the way you’ve spoken to me tonight. But 
I’ll never forget it, and some time when you want some¬ 
thing from me I’ll just remind you of the things you told 
me.” 

“You won’t have to,” Eleanor replied sullenly. “I’ll 
never forget them. You’ll never give me a chance to. I 
don’t expect to regret them.” 



CHAPTER IX 


It took several days and the advent of Chester Adel- 
stein to restore Mrs. Hoffman to anything like what 
passed with her for calm. It was nearly a week after the 
battle over Bud Lane that Elly came home from school 
and learned that Chester had telephoned. 

“Chester Adelstein called you up,” her mother said. 
“Just after you left. He said he’d call again tonight at 
seven.” 

“All right.” She made up her mind that if he wanted 
to make a date with her she would do so. He was amus¬ 
ing in his fashion. Of course there wasn’t a chance in 
the world of getting a crush on him, but she might learn 
some interesting things. Seven came and went without 
a call from Chester. After dinner she went into the li¬ 
brary, picked up a sheet of writing paper and started 
idly to write a note to Ted Levine. She didn’t owe him a 
letter. In fact, he’d owed her one for several months. 
But she had been reverting frequently to the things Bud 
had told her on Saturday night. It was funny, but her 
new friendship with Bud, nice though it was, seemed to 
bring her closer to Ted, rather than to have any great 
meaning of its own. It was awfully nice, naturally, to 
know Bud; nobody could help liking to hear “I love you,” 
and he certainly kissed pleasantly. He had brains, too. 
But he made her want to write to Ted. She said very 
little in her note. 

“1 want to report progress” [she wrote]. “Mother 
and I had an awful battle a few nights ago, and I won a 
i47 


148 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


complete victory. You'll be glad to know about it, I 
hope. 

“Are you coming to New York soon? It’s ages since 
I've seen you, and there's a lot of talk about. Bud Lane 
spoke of you. He's a nice boy, don't you think so? Let 
me know when you're coming. As ever, 

“Elly” 

She was addressing the envelope when the phone rang. 
She picked up the receiver. 

“Is this Schuyler 9908?” 

“Yes.” 

“I wish to speak to Miss Eleanor Hoffman.” 

“Speaking.” 

“This is Chester Adelstein.” 

“Oh, hello.” 

“How do you do. I said I would call back at seven, 
but I was engaged at the time.” 

“Oh, that’s all right.” 

“Miss Hoffman, on the twenty-eighth of next month my 
fraternity is giving a dance at the Astor. Will you do me 
the honor of accompanying me?” Eleanor had difficulty 
suppressing a giggle. He talked just like a book of eti¬ 
quette. 

“Why, yes, I’d love to.” 

“That’s settled. I’ll tell you full details later. Mean¬ 
while, I’d like to see you some evening. When could I 
come?” 

“You can come tonight if you want to.” A pause, elo¬ 
quent. 

“Well, I had an engagement, but I could break it.” 

“Oh, don’t do that, we’ll make it some other night.” 

“It was of no importance. I didn’t want to keep it, 
anyway. What time shall I be up?” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


149 


“Any time.” 

“All right. Good-by.” 

“ ’By.” Mrs. Hoffman, who had come into the room 
toward the last few words, stood watching her daughter. 

“Eleanor Hoffman, did you just make a date for to¬ 
night?” 

“Yop.” 

“Who with? I don’t see how you get along in school, 
with all the gaddying you do.” 

“Chester Adelstein.” Mrs. Hoffman’s eyes brightened. 
Chester Adelstein. That was more like it. 

“Well, I’m glad to see that you can still manage to 
find one or two of your own kind to associate with.” 

Chester arrived about half an hour after his phone 
call. Elly opened the door for him. 

“You got out of your other date very easily, didn’t 
you?” she asked. 

“Oh, yes, it was comparatively simple.” 

Mr. Hoffman had gone to a lodge meeting, so there was 
no time spent discussing politics. Mrs. Hoffman beamed 
upon the young man, and Muriel came in to say hello. 

“Irving’ll be here in a little while,” she said. “Shall 
we make it a foursome? We were going out dancing.” 

“I’m kind of tired,” Elly said. “I don’t think I care 
to go out,” she looked at Chester—“that is, unless you’re 
anxious to.” 

“Oh no, I’d much prefer to remain at home and talk.” 

After Muriel and Irving had left Mrs. Hoffman dis¬ 
creetly withdrew. 

She needed no hint this time. She was more than will¬ 
ing to leave them alone. She was altogether delighted at 
the presence of Chester Adelstein in her house. Not that 
he was any too good for her daughter. No man in the 



150 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


world was that. But it would be something to mention 
to those women at the bridge game next week. They 
were only too glad to mention the fact that Eleanor had 
been seen with a Gentile. 

“ 1 ’m glad you didn’t want to go out,” Chester said. “I 
can’t stand girls who are always wanting to run around 
and go dancing and have money spent on them. If they 
don’t go with me for myself alone I’d rather not have them 
go with me at all.” Eleanor smiled. 

“You know a great many girls, don’t you?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he replied, “and you’d be surprised how few 
really worth while ones there are. Girls who are supposed 
to be nice, I mean. I can’t imagine what’s getting into 
girls’ heads these days! They have the strangest ideas. 
I understand them, because I’m studying them all the 
time. I’m deeply interested in human nature. It’s essen¬ 
tial, I think, for a man who intends to be a good lawyer, 
especially a criminal lawyer, to be a thorough student of 
human nature. Don’t you agree?” 

“Oh, yes, of course.” She smiled. 

“Don’t laugh at me!” he commanded sharply. “I don’t 
want to sound conceited, but I really don’t think you 
realize what a compliment I’ve paid you this evening. It’s 
not many girls I would break a date for at the last 
minute.” 

“I appreciate that,” she said. “It was very good of 
you.” 

“Now you’re making fun of me. I won’t have it. No 
girl can do that and get away with it.” 

“Look,” Eleanor said, “one of the things I will not do 
is quarrel with my friends. I have enough scrapping that 
I can’t avoid, right here at home, and I simply will not 
take on any more. I think you’re an interesting person, 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


151 


and I’d like to see more of you, but if it can’t be done 
without scrapping, it won’t be done at all.” 

“You’re frank if nothing else.” 

“Yes. That’s what I told you the other night, only 
you wouldn’t believe me. I’m frank because it’s the 
simplest way of accomplishing what I want. It’s too 
much trouble for me to be any other way.” 

“Well, I’ll say one thing,” Chester answered, “you’re 
one strange girl. I’m not sure whether I like you or not, 
but I will admit that you interest me. And darn few 
girls do that. I’m hard to interest. Anyway, will you 
come to the Beta Zeta dance with me?” 

“Yes, I’d love to. I know quite a lot of your boys, I 
think. Most of your chapter. And I know some from 
out of town, too. Know Howard Isaacs?” 

“Sure. He’s Yale. Yes, we went to high school to¬ 
gether.” 

“Oh, did you? That Yale chapter is nice.” 

“To tell you the truth, it’s better than ours. They’re 
getting too easy. Letting in too darn many kikes. It’s 
bad enough, the number of them there are at Columbia, 
without having them in your fraternity. No wonder 
they’re talking of limiting the Jews in colleges. It seems 
like a rough deal on the surface, but actually it’s only to 
eliminate the undesirable element.” 

“I know, but how can you be so arbitrary about which 
is the undesirable element? I don’t see how we can expect 
to do away with Jewish prejudice on the part of Gentiles 
if there’s so much of it inside our own faith. Either 
you’re a Jew or you’re not, and I can’t see what differ¬ 
ence it makes whether your father’s parents came from 
Russia or Germany, or stopped in England on the way 
over. It’s only an accident, anyway.” 



152 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“That’s perfectly ridiculous. You know yourself there 
is a difference. Do you mean to say there’s no difference 
between me and some little East Side kike tailor’s son?” 

“Not essentially. You’re different on top. But the 
important point is that he’s a Jew and so are you, and 
you’ll never get the people outside to accept you the 
way you feel you should be accepted until you stop feeling 
superior to that little East Side tailor. I don’t give a 
darn, myself. I mean, I’m not crusading for them, or 
anything like that, but I can’t help laughing at you. It’s 
just like my mother. She scolded me for years because 
I was very good friends with a boy whose folks came 
from Russia. Now she scolds me because I’m friends 
with some Gentiles.” 

“Why not? Why should you go outside your own 

class? Either below or a-.” He stopped short. 

Eleanor laughed. 

“My goodness,” she said, “you weren’t going to say 
above, were you?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“You know, I’ve often thought that secretly, way down 
somewhere in their subconscious minds, Jews felt that 
way, that Gentiles were above them. That might be the 
very reason they’re so touchy on the subject. You know, 
an inferiority complex, according to this Freudian theory 
that everyone is talking about so much.” 

“Bosh. I’m as good as any Gentile in New York.” 

“There! That’s just it. Why should you feel it neces¬ 
sary to say that if you weren’t unconvinced of it?” 

“I don’t care to discuss it any further.” 

“All right. It’s too near quarreling, anyway.” 

“You call any little discussion a quarrel, don’t you?” 

“No.” 




WHO WOULD BE FREE 


153 


“Well, anyway, you’re a very remarkable girl. You’re 
peculiar, all right, and you have some awfully wrong ideas 
in your head, but you are interesting.” 

“I don’t bore you?” 

“No. Not in the least. By the way, do you like to go 
to the theater?” 

“Crazy about it.” 

“Couldn’t we go some night next week? What would 
you like to see?” 

“How about going to the Washington Square Players? 
I’m anxious to see this bill. I hear Bushido, that Japa¬ 
nese play, is wonderful. And the other things on this 
bill are good, too.” Chester vetoed that idea. 

“No, I don’t think I’d care to go to that. Too much 
tragedy. I think there’s enough unpleasantness in real 
life without going to the theater to see more. I’ve been 
wanting to see Good Gracious Annabelle ever since it 
opened. Now that’s the type of play I like. A cute, clean 
little comedy. Not too deep. Would that suit you?” 

“Sure. I like to see every kind of play. Some day I’ll 
be doing theatrical work, and I want to see everything.” 

“What do you mean, you’re going on the stage?” 

“No,” she laughed. “There are other things to do in 
the theater besides act. I want to design costumes and 
make posters.” 

“Oh. Well, then, I’ll get seats for that. What night? 
Would Thursday be all right? I like to let my ticket man 
know a few days ahead. I hate to sit behind the fourth 
row.” 

“Yes, let’s go Thursday.” Chester looked at his watch. 

“It’s nearly eleven,” he said. “I’ve a lot to do in the 
morning, so I think I’ll be going.” Eleanor rose. She 
was rather tired herself. 



154 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“It was very nice of you to break your date,” she said, 
“and come here. I appreciate it, really. And I’m not 
making fun of you.” Chester beamed. 

“Well, I did want to see you, little girl. You interest 
me deeply. What do you say to having dinner together 
first, before we go to the show? Could you?” 

“I think I’d be allowed to with you,” she said, “al¬ 
though as a rule mother likes me home for meals.” 

“All right. That’s a date. I’ll call for you at six, and 
we can decide then where to go.” 

“Fine. Good night.” 

“Good night. I’ve had a most pleasant evening, 
Eleanor. I may call you Eleanor, mayn’t I?” 

“Of course.” She smiled again as she closed the door 
after him. That stilted voice which he put on and took 
off on these occasions of greetings and good-bys seemed 
to her awfully funny. She wondered how he had come 
upon the notion. His mother must have trained him that 
way, she supposed. Yes, he had said his mother was a 
stickler for etiquette. But he acted as though it were 
something you measured by the yard. Oh, well, it was 
instructive, and she wanted to learn. 



CHAPTER X 


i 

Ted Levine answered Eleanor’s letter almost immedi¬ 
ately, with a short note saying he would not be down until 
the Christmas holidays, and hoped he could see her then. 
There were a great many things he wanted to talk to 
her about, he said. How was she getting on with Lane? 
He seemed to have quite a crush on her, Ted thought. He 
was a pretty good sort, not too bright, but pretty fair. 

It was funny, how that letter, short and utterly imper¬ 
sonal, stayed with her. She was having a gay and stimu¬ 
lating time those autumn months with the crowd from 
school, and Bud Lane managed to get to New York rather 
frequently. Chester Adelstein, too, was always available, 
he called up regularly and took her to theaters and dances. 
She was quite happy. Her mother’s annoyance at her 
intimacy with the people from school was considerably 
counterbalanced by her pleasure at the growing friendship 
with Chester. Maybe she would come to her senses after 
all. Mrs. Hoffman beamed upon Elly encouragingly 
whenever she spoke of Chester, and hinted clumsily at 
possible joys to come. 

Still behind everything else in Eleanor’s mind lurked 
the knowledge that Ted Levine was coming down Christ¬ 
mas week. She didn’t think of it much consciously, but 
it was there, with her, all the time. It was ages since she 
had seen him. There would be endless things to talk 
about, to compare notes over. When she did think about 
it with her conscious mind it was with eagerness. Being 
with Ted had always been like being alone with herself. 
i55 


156 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


She never had to explain anything to him. He just knew. 
And he didn’t think she was queer or crazy, either. It 
would be nice for him to meet Eva and Roberta and the 
gang. He would fit in there quite easily, just as she had. 
She must arrange a party when he came. 

The six weeks between the time she received the letter 
and the moment his telephone call came, were frightfully 
long, in spite of the fact that they were crowded with 
dates and parties. And although she had been invited to 
a rather good party the first evening of the Christmas 
holidays, she decided to stay at home. She couldn’t have 
told why, exactly, if she had been asked. But she didn’t 
want to go out that night. She was very quiet during 
dinner, and sat rather tense, in an attitude of expectant 
waiting. Once during dinner the telephone rang, and 
although ordinarily she waited until the maid answered, 
she leaped from her chair and flew down the long hall to 
the library. She picked up the receiver and spoke, wait¬ 
ing breathlessly through the eternity of a second before 
the answering voice came. It was Irving for Muriel. She 
breathed again, spoke to him rather shortly, and called 
her sister. 

After dinner she went into the library to read, sitting 
within arm’s reach of the phone. It rang several times 
during the course of the evening, but none of the times 
brought Ted. At eleven o’clock she went to bed, and re¬ 
sumed her reading. She was still awake when Muriel 
came back from a date with Irving. Muriel was in a 
confidential mood, and Eleanor listened with more interest 
than usual. It filled her mind for a time. 

“Elly,” Muriel said excitedly when she was sure her 
mother would not hear her, “we’ve decided to announce 
our engagement as soon as graduation is over. He’ll be 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


157 


taken right in his uncle’s firm, and it won’t be long before 
we can get married. You know, I always wanted to be 
married young. You won’t mind if I get married ahead 
of you, will you?” She spoke a little wistfully, as though 
she were afraid of hurting her sister. 

“Don’t be silly,” Elly said. “Why should I? Lord, I 
might never marry. Would that mean you could never 
marry either? The only thing is mother. You know how 
formal she is. She’s going to be disappointed because I 
didn’t do the correct thing and get there first. But she’ll 
be glad about Irving. She always did like him, even 
when . . She stopped and looked at Muriel, who 
smiled a little uneasily. 

“Even when you and he had a crush? Yes, I know. 
You don’t care for him that way any more, do you?” she 
asked. “I asked him about that last year when he first 
started to rush me, and he said it had only been a kid 
affair. That’s right, isn’t it?” 

“Certainly. It stopped ages ago, when I first began to 
go with Ted. He would keep getting into things. But I 
don’t think Irving approves of me much any more, does 
he?” Muriel looked faintly embarrassed. 

“Well,” she said, “he thinks you have some awfully 
crazy ideas. But he likes you, and he says you’re terribly 
clever. He thinks you’re much cleverer than I am, as a 
matter of fact, but he prefers to be married to a girl who 
hasn’t got such wild ideas. He thinks it’s wonderful that 
you haven’t influenced me more.” 

“Well, you must admit that I’ve never even tried to 
influence you.” 

“No, you really haven’t. And you know I’m crazy 
about Irving, but I’ll always feel just the same about you, 
and I’ll never let him come between us.” Her voice was 



158 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


a little tremulous, a most unusual thing for Muriel. 
Eleanor patted her hand. 

“You’re a good kid,” she said. “It’s funny, isn’t it, that 
we should have such different ideas and still be so close? 
Funny, and kind of nice. Look at us, we’re getting all 
mushy.” They both laughed a trifle self consciously. It 
was quite unlike them to express any of the really nice 
things that lay between them, and both were embarrassed 
a little. A shrill noise broke in upon their embarrass¬ 
ment. It was the telephone, sounding incredibly harsh 
and strident, coming so unexpectedly in the night. 

“I wonder who that can be?” Muriel said. “Bet it’s a 
wrong number. Mother’ll have a fit if it wakes her up.” 
But Eleanor did not stay to hear any more. In her bare 
feet and without even a bathrobe to protect her from the 
draught of the hall, she sped to the library. The shrill 
voice had clamored only twice when she picked up the 
receiver and breathed a faint hello into the mouthpiece. 
After a mlilion years, Ted’s voice came gayly: 

“Elly?” Suddenly she was quite calm, quite casual, 
altogether matter-of-fact. 

“Yes,” she replied, “this is Elly. Why on earth did 
you call me at this ungodly hour? You’ve probably waked 
the whole family.” 

“You don’t seem very glad to hear me.” 

“Certainly I’m glad, but it is awfully late to phone, you 
know.” 

“Yes, I do know, but I had to speak to you. Listen, if 
I come up for you now, can you get away? I’m with a 
fellow from school, and he’s crazy to meet you. We’re 
at Pennsylvania station and it would only take about 
twenty minutes to get up there in a cab. Come on, be a 
sport.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


159 


“I wish I could, but really, Ted, there isn’t a chance in 
the world. I could never get out. Don’t plague me with 
the idea, but make a date with me now for tomorrow or 
the next day. I do want to see you.” 

“All right. Tomorrow for lunch. Meet me at the 
Biltmore at one o’clock. Then we can talk all afternoon. 
All right?” 

“Yes. That’ll be fine. Got to hang up now. G’by.” 

“ ’By. I wish you could come out now.” 

“Good-by.” 


2 

He was waiting for her when she reached the Biltmore 
lobby. That was nice. She’d more than half expected 
him to be late, he was such a careless person. But he 
was there, looking very handsome, and rather more neat 
than she had remembered him. 

“Ted.” She walked up almost under his very eyes be¬ 
fore he saw her. 

“Elly.” He looked down at her. He was taller, too, 
than she had remembered. “You look lovely.” She did. 
She wore a suit of blue velvet, the kind of warm, dusky 
blue of the sky just as it is turning dark. The collar and 
cuffs were of squirrel, and her reddish hair showed in 
little wings from under the sides of a squirrel turban. 
Her cheeks, usually so pale, were faintly flushed. She 
put her hand in his, and he wrung it. 

“Ouch.” They both laughed. “Well.” 

“Well. Let’s get a table and order—I’m starved—and 
then we can talk. How’s my Galatea?” 

“Oh, you mustn’t take too much credit.” They found a 
table. 

“I’ll order,” said Ted with rather a lordly air. “I know 



160 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


just what you want.” She watched him, amused and 
admiring. How nice it was to be with him. A sort of 
homecoming. 

The waiter left their food and went away. 

“Begin,” said Ted. “Tell me everything. Are you in 
love with Lane? He is with you, you know.” 

“Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not. I think he’s 
awfully nice, and lots of fun to be with, but I’m not in 
love with him. I haven’t even got a little crush. You 
know,” quite seriously, “I don’t think I’m capable of 
falling in love.” 

“Don’t make me laugh.” 

“Well, look, other girls my age are crazy about some¬ 
one. Some of them are even engaged and married. 
Why, my sister is going to get engaged in the summer. 
And I’ve never even felt a flicker. Why, do you sup¬ 
pose?” 

“Waiting for me.” 

“Silly.” 

“Well, I don’t know. It just happened, I guess. Like 
me. I’ve never really fallen for any girl. We’re too much 
concerned with ourselves, I guess.” 

“I don’t really want to, either. When I was a kid, about 
fourteen or fifteen, I used to think that nothing would 
be so nice as that, butil’ve changed. I’ve got a fixed idea, 
—remember you said I should?—and that’s freedom. If 
I ever get that I’ll hang on to it so tight that it’ll never 
escape me, and I don’t want to think of anything else. A 
fixed idea really doesn’t give you much room for anything 
else.” 

“No. By the way, you said you’d made some progress. 
Tell me about it.” 

“It was about Bud Lane. You know how mother is— 
she didn’t want to let him come to see me because he was 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


161 


a Gentile. But I was firm.” And she recounted the whole 
affair, to his great edification. 

“You are getting brave,” he commended, “I can re¬ 
member the time when you wouldn’t have dared.” 

“So can I. But I’m so afraid of getting hemmed in that 
I’m less afraid of fighting. You know? School sort of 
opened a lot of doors to me, doors to places I never even 
knew existed, and now I see that they’re the most every¬ 
day sort of places. But that’s what I love. There’s noth¬ 
ing queer or eccentric about the people I know. They’re 
just human beings. Oh, Ted, I’m really awfully happy.” 

“Gosh, I wish I were.” 

“What’s the matter?” There was real concern in her 
voice. 

“I suppose it’s crazy of me, but it’s on my mind a lot.” 

“What is?” 

“The war. I want to leave college and go over, join the 
American Ambulance Corps, or something. I don’t know, 
I want to beat these other guys to it, ’cause we’ll be get¬ 
ting into the war ourselves in a little while. You’ll see.” 

“Ted!” sharply. 

“Sure. These people who think the war’s nearly over 
have another guess coming. It’s got a good long time to 
run yet, and before it’s over this country’ll be well mixed 
up in it, too. I had a long talk with my father last night, 
and he agrees with me. And believe me, he knows, be¬ 
cause he really studies the war.” 

“Does he know you want to go over?” 

“Yop.” 

“What does he think about it.” 

“Well, naturally, he isn’t crazy about the idea, but he 
understands it perfectly. He’s a good guy, my father.. 
You know to this day there’s a price on his head in Russia. 
He was a radical agitator and he only escaped by being; 



162 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


smuggled across the border in a load of hay. We’re a, 
very romantic family, even if our name is Levine.” 

Elly didn’t answer. She was thinking about the war. 
Somehow, through all the two and a half years of its 
existence it had never really touched her until now. She’d 
read about the battles, she’d thrilled at the war plays, 
she’d contributed to drives, but always in a detached sort 
of way. It was something far beyond the confines of her 
life, something that could never possibly touch her. And 
now, suddenly, because one boy, sitting opposite her at 
the lunch table, spoke in a casual way of entering it, the 
whole thing rose up and engulfed her. In that moment it 
changed from an utterly impersonal business to a thing 
that was painfully her own affair. Yet it was exactly the 
same war as it had been five minutes before. 

“You can’t really go,” she said. “It would kill your 
mother.” 

“Um,” said Ted, “that’s the only thing. Still, if she 
were convinced that America would get in I think she’d 
just as soon let me go right away. Oh, well, I won’t do it 
for a couple of weeks, anyway. Hey, why don’t you eat 
your salad?” 

“I can’t. I’m not hungry, really.” She couldn’t eat, 
now. She felt as though food would choke her. 

“What’ll we do after lunch?” he asked her. “Want to 
go to the movies or something?” 

“All right, let’s go to one and sit in the back so we 
can talk.” 

They found a little movie house on Seventh Avenue, 
near Forty-second Street, and sat in the last row, with 
empty seats all around them. The place was almost de¬ 
serted; there was just a sprinkling of people scattered 
about, mostly men. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


163 


They came in during the news reel, which consisted 
largely of war pictures. There was a close-up of some 
French soldiers being decorated for bravery. The sprin¬ 
kling of men applauded. Elly shuddered. 

“Oh, Ted.” 

“What?” 

“I don’t want you to go.” She said it very low. He 
took hold of her hand, and patted it. 

“Nice kid.” 

“Don’t.” She didn’t want to be called a nice kid. She 
wanted him to say he wouldn’t go. She wanted to put 
away the image of the war as a personal monster, and get 
back the vague, impersonal picture she’d always had. If 
he said he wouldn’t go that would happen. Not other¬ 
wise. She didn’t know why it should make so much differ¬ 
ence to her, she hardly ever saw him, anyway. But it 
did. Suddenly she was crying. The film got all blurred 
before her eyes, and her throat ached. 

“I want to go away from here,” she said, making her 
voice steady. “Come on, let’s walk on Fifth Avenue for 
a while, and then take the bus up to my house.” 

“All right.” They went. The day outside was very 
cold and brilliant, filled with a kind of hard, penetrating 
sunshine. They walked briskly east to Fifth Avenue, 
and then north. 

“Am I all funny?” Elly asked, looking up at him. 

“You seem pretty good to me.” He took her arm with 
a kind of proprietary air, and bent toward her as they 
walked. At Fifty-seventh Street they caught a bus and 
in less than half an hour they were in Elly’s library. 

Mrs. Hoffman was out playing bridge. Muriel had a 
date, too, so there was nearly a whole afternoon for them, 
quite undisturbed. They sat in the library. For a long 



164 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


time it seemed, they were quite still. Then Ted got up 
from his chair and came over to where Elly was sitting. 

“I didn’t know it would hit you this way,” he said, 
lifting up her hand and kissing it, “or I wouldn’t have 
told you.” She smiled. 

“I didn’t know anything could hit me this way,” she 
answered. “But it’s kind of sudden, you know, and it 
makes me think of a lot of things I never thought of be¬ 
fore.” He sat on the arm of her chair and took her face 
between both his hands. 

“Does it make you think of me differently?” She 
nodded, mutely, and tears came into her eyes. 

“Don’t cry dear . . . dearest . . . don’t . . . please.” 
He took his handkerchief and began to wipe the tears 
away, but they kept on coming. 

He slid from the chair arm to a kneeling position be¬ 
side her, his face on a level with hers. He looked at her 
solemnly with his large dark eyes. 

“You love me, don’t you?” he said, wonderingly. 

“I guess so,” through more tears. 

“And you just found it out when I said I was going 
away, didn’t you?” 

“Yes. Oh,” she clutched his arm, “don’t go.” 

“Darling.” He kissed her. It was a long kiss, very 
tender and soft. 

“Promise me you won’t go? Anyway, not until we get 
in—if you really think we will.” 

“Well, maybe I won’t. Father thinks it would be a 
good idea for me to wait and get my degree, as long as 
I’m so nearly through. I was kind of undecided, but 
now, with you, that makes a difference, of course.” He 
kissed her again. 

“Do you love me?” She nodded. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


165 


“How funny you are, darling. Only three hours ago 
you were telling me you could never fall in love with any¬ 
body.” 

“That’s nothing. So were you. Do you suppose we’ve 
always been like this and didn’t have sense enough to 
know it?” 

“I guess so. Kiss me!” 

“What else have I been doing for the last fifteen 
minutes?” 

“You’ve been letting me kiss you, which is something 
altogether different. I want you to kiss me.” 

“All right, master.” She stood up, and planted a kiss 
on his forehead. “There you are.” 

“No, none of that. Right here,” touching his mouth 
with his fingers. “There, that’s better,” when she had 
obeyed him. 

“Mother’ll be home in a little while,” she said, regret¬ 
fully, “we’d better be ready for her. You know she’s 
never forgiven you for being alive. She still holds you 
accountable for most of my sins—you and John Lyman 
Carver. Gosh, how she hates that man. It’s funny, too, 
neither you nor he had half the influence on me that 
Samuel Butler has had.” 

“You’re just hypnotized by that book, aren’t you?” 

“Yop. When I think of that book I can understand 
perfectly how religious people feel about the Bible. It is 
my Bible. Whenever I get mixed up on anything I read 
part of it, and it always sets me right.” 

“I never could get excited over it. I know it’s sup¬ 
posed to be the father of all modern novels, but it’s too 
discursive for me. I like the French style better, where 
it’s straight narrative, like in Cousin Betty , f’rinstance. 
Oh, I read a swell book last week, The Emperor of 



166 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Portugalia. It’s one of those straight-away sort of books.” 

“Who’s it by?” 

“A woman. Selma Lagerlof. She’s Swedish, I think.” 

“I must get it from the library. I don’t care for those 
so much, though. I like ’em when they begin with the 
grandfather of her hero, and work down to his own grand¬ 
children. I like English writers best of all.” 

“I like French. If you had to choose your favorite 
book, beside The Way of All Flesh, I mean, what would 
you say?” 

“That’s hard to answer offhand. I switch about so 
much. Every time I read something I have to readjust 
my list. In high school I belonged to the literary 
club, and for one whole term we read the plays of 
Maeterlinck. Then I thought he was the greatest 
writer in the world. I thought Monna Vanna was the 
most wonderful thing ever written. But the next term 
we read Ibsen, and then I got an awful crush on A 
Doil's House. I’m not so crazy about that now. My 
two favorite plays are The Gay Lord Quex —gee, I wish 
they’d play that here some time,—and Caesar and Cleo¬ 
patra.” 

“You mean ‘Antony and Cleopatra,’ don’t you?” 

“I do not . I’m talking about Shaw not Shakespeare. 
If you haven’t read that, you haven’t read anything. 
It’s wonderful. The most marvelous Cleopatra. Only 
sixteen years old and very naive. And Caesar awfully 
funny and sophisticated. John Drew would be a mar¬ 
velous Caesar.” 

“Aw, you’re crazy.” 

“No, I’m not. I’ll lend you the book, and I bet you’ll 
agree with me.” 

“All right, let me take it back to school with me.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


167 


“Listen!” Heavy footsteps were coming down the 
outside hall. “Here comes mother.” Ted jumped from 
the chair arm where he had been sitting, and picked 
up a magazine. He was sitting decorously on the 
couch, glancing through the magazine when Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man came in. She greeted him rather curtly, and with 
considerable surprise. She had not known that Eleanor 
had an engagement with him, in fact, she had been un¬ 
aware that he was in New York. However, here he 
was in her house, and it was close to dinner time. 

“Will you stay for supper?” she asked without cor¬ 
diality. Ted smiled. 

“No, thank you,” he said, “I can’t. I’m expected at 
my aunt’s at six thirty. You know,” he went on, turn¬ 
ing to Elly, “Aunt Sarah. She lives on a hundred and 
seventy-sixth street. I’ll stay a little while longer if I 
may, I don’t want to get there until the last minute.” 

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “We don’t eat until 
seven on Saturdays. Mr. Hoffman always plays poker 
at the club Saturday afternoons.” She turned to go. 
“Excuse me,” she said, “I must go inside to look after 
the dinner.” 

They stood looking at each other, smiling. 

“I feel like an awful dog,” Elly said, “always laughing 
at mother. But she is funny, isn’t she? Oh, that re¬ 
minds me, why did you tell Bud Lane I had no sense 
of humor?” 

“Well, you haven’t, about yourself. You can’t have. 
You shouldn’t have. It would get frightfully in the 
way, and probably prevent you from accomplishing the 
thing you want. Instead of going ahead doggedly you’d 
stop every once in a while and laugh at yourself, and 
that would mean a distinct retrogression. I think people 



168 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


talk too much about a sense of humor, anyway. And, 
believe me, the people who’re so sure they have one 
are usually absolutely minus. And, anyway, they usu¬ 
ally mix up a sense of humor with a sense of fun. 
That’s what you’ve got—a sense of fun. It’s one of 
the things I’ve always liked about you. We think the 
same things are funny. I think that’s a very good foun¬ 
dation for a happy marriage, don’t you?” 

“What has that got to do with it?” 

“Don’t be coy, for the love ojt Pete. Remember, once 
when we were kids I said you’d probably marry me in 
the end. Well, you will. Of course not right away, but 
you know, as soon as I’m out of college I’ll go into 
my father’s business. And he likes you, Elly. He 
thinks you’re great. So he’ll give me a fairly decent 
salary, and then we’ll get married. You want to, don’t 
you?” 

“I guess so, but not for a long time. I wouldn’t want 
to until I was all straight with myself. But it’ll be fun 
to think about it, anyway. You wouldn’t want me to 
stop seeing the other boys, would you?” 

“No, silly. I’m not like that. I know you love me, 
and that’s all that counts. Will you write to me every 
week?” 

“Yes, will you?” 

“Yop. And, believe me, nothing could prove my love 
any better than that. I hate to write.” 

“I’ve noticed that.” 

“Fresh!” He kissed her. 

“Look out. Mother has terribly keen ears. Espe¬ 
cially for things like this.” His answer was to kiss her 
again. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


169 


“Here she comes now. Be careful, please! You 
don’t want to spoil everything, do you?” 

By the time Mrs. Hoffman had traversed the distance 
from the kitchen to the library, Ted was in his overcoat, 
and putting on his gloves. 

“It’s time for me to start, Elly,” he was saying, “I’ll 
call you tomorrow. Good-by.” 

“So long. It was very nice to see you.” Their eyes 
glinted as they bade each other a formal good-by. Mrs. 
Hoffman, satisfied, apparently, that all was well, said 
good-night and went back to the kitchen. They man¬ 
aged to get in one more kiss before the door shut him 
out. 

Eleanor, left alone, was thoughtful. A part of her 
was exceedingly calm, now that she knew the real rea¬ 
son why she’d always grown so excited over Ted. How 
funny of her not to have recognized it. Another part 
was even more excited than usual. He was wonderful. 
So kind of thrilling. He mustn’t go away to war. She 
couldn’t bear it. Even though she wouldn’t see him an 
awful lot during the next few months while he was at 
college, it wasn’t the same thing as being in the fighting. 
And as long as America wasn’t in it, why should he 
go? Well, he’d half promised not to. 

It was nice, this feeling. But one thought came crop¬ 
ping up, which prevented her giving herself up to it 
altogether. What had happened to her resolve not to 
get in love with anyone? And how would being in 
love with Ted affect her struggle for freedom? There 
was something about this thing she wanted—this spiritual 
integrity—which resented her feeling for Ted. Wouldn’t 
being in love interfere somehow with belonging to herself? 
It did complicate matters somewhat. Or, at least, it 



170 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


would with anyone but Ted. After all, it was Ted who had 
helped her start to work toward the freedom. The tele¬ 
phone cut in on her ruminations. It was Ted. 

“Hello. Elly? Can I come back after dinner? I 
have so much I want to talk to you about.” 

“All right. I’ll get the devil, but come anyway.” 

“ ’By.” 

“El—ly,” came her mother’s voice. “Come in and help 
me set the table. Katie has to go to the store. She for¬ 
got to get bread this morning.” 

“Are you going out tonight?” Mrs. Hoffman asked, as 
they spread the tablecloth. 

“I don’t know. Ted’s coming back later. We may go 
out. Do you know, he says he’s sure this country’ll be in 
the war within a year.” 

“A lot he knows.” 

“Oh, but he really does know a lot about that. He 
even thought of going over and joining the ambulance 
corps or something.” 

“That’s just like him. Always wanting to do something 
eccentric. Never a thought for his poor mother. How 
do you suppose she would feel if her only son went over 
to fight in a war that had absolutely nothing to do with 
him? Not a bit of consideration. He’s a fine influence 
for a girl like you, I don’t think. You’re not selfish and 
inconsiderate enough already, you have to associate with 
a fellow like that.” 

Nevertheless, he did come back. That was the way 
it usually happened. Mrs. Hoffman would hold forth 
and orate, and assert her divine authority, and the girls 
would go right ahead with whatever project they had in 
mind. In their childhood, of course, her physical superi¬ 
ority had been able to triumph for her, but ever since 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


171 


they were grown it availed her little. Still, she seemed 
happy enough if she could just talk on. 

He came, and he stayed until after midnight. When 
he went, reluctantly, he had given Eleanor his promise 
not to go to war, unless America should enter it. 

They managed to see each other some time every day 
for the rest of the vacation. It was a delirious week 
for Eleanor, delirious and uneven. She was frightfully 
happy a great part of the time, and Ted was adorable, 
but there were moments when she felt quite sunk in a 
vague, incomprehensible despair. At night, after she was 
in bed, she would take from the back of her head all 
the thoughts and impressions she had stored there during 
the day, and go over them, one by one. A word he had 
said, a glance he had given her, something funny they had 
giggled over, a kiss he had snatched right on the street, as 
they had turned a corner, and no one was looking. A 
horde of precious little things, meaning nothing, really, yet 
meaning everything. But always this incomprehensible 
something acting as a sort of check-rein on her happiness. 

When he left for school again on Sunday night, Elly 
went to the train with him. They had been together all 
afternoon and evening, and now it was time to say 
good-by. 

“Write to me?” Ted squeezed her hand very tight. 

“Yes. Ouch, you’re hurting me. My ring digs.” 

“A lot?” 

“Yes, will you?” 

“I’ll try. But anyway I’ll be thinking about you all 
the time.” 

“And you positively will not go to war?” 

“No, pesty, I told you I wouldn’t. But it won’t be 
long before we’ll all be going.” 



172 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Oh shut up, why ruin our last few minutes?” The 
train caller yelled something which sounded like “all 
aboard.” Ted picked up his bag. 

“Good-by, little nut,” he said in a gay voice. Then 
very low, although still casually, “I love you, really.” 

“Me, too,” she said. “Good-by.” They shook hands 
quite matter-of-factly, and Ted walked through the gate. 
Elly turned and walked to the subway. In twenty 
minutes she was at home. 

“Where’ve you been?” her mother asked her. 

“Down to the station with Ted. He went back to¬ 
night.” 

“Thank God for that. I don’t know what you can see 
in that fellow. You are without doubt the most perverse 
girl in the whole world. Every other nice Jewish girl in 
New York would give her right eye for a fellow like 
Chester Adelstein, and you, who can have him, treat him 
like the dirt under your feet and take up with a little 
socialist kike. Tell me one thing, is there anything 
serious in this business?” 

“What do you mean, serious?” 

“You know perfectly well what I mean. I don’t want 
you to get any ideas into your head about marrying this 
boy. If you have no sense yourself, at least have some 
consideration for the rest of your family. It would make 
it very uncomfortable for Muriel if they found out you 
were running around with that type of person.” 

“Well, as I’ve told you before, I intend to keep right on 
choosing my friends for myself. The Housemans will 
have to stand it. I’ll tell you what, if you feel that I’m 
such a burden and a disgrace to the family I can move 
away. I might arrange with father to give me grandma’s 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


173 


money, and Fm sure I could get some part time work 
to do.” 

Mrs. Hoffman leaped upon the words, almost before 
they were out. 

“That’s right, that’s right,” she said. “You want to 
get away from home. I might have expected it. That’s 
what I get for letting you go to art school. I knew why 
I didn’t want you to go, all right. Getting these Bo¬ 
hemian ideas. Leaving home. Do you want to kill your 
own mother?” 

“No, but I seem to be such a nuisance, I just thought if 
I got out of the way. ...” 

“You’re only talking that way to aggravate me. But 
you’ll be sorry some day, when it’s too late. Just you 
wait and see.” Eleanor sighed, and left the room. 

3 

It was planned that the engagement would be announced 
in June, after Irving’s graduation from law school. The 
Housemans altogether approved of Muriel, and they be¬ 
lieved in early marriages. They had been married when 
Mrs. Houseman was seventeen and her husband only 
twenty. And was there a happier couple in the city of 
New York? They were glad their son was willing to 
marry and settle down without sowing wild oats so many 
boys thought they had to before they could call them¬ 
selves men of the world. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hoffman were extremely pleased about 
Irving. They had known him for years, ever since he 
first came to the house to see Elly when they went to 
Sunday School together. He was a nice sensible boy, 
clever, upright, honorable. There was no nonsense about 
him, and while you couldn’t exactly call the Houseman 



174 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


family a wealthy one, there was no doubt about the fact 
that he could take care of Muriel in the manner to which 
she was accustomed. A little better, maybe. 

So the days went by a great deal more placidly than 
usual. Nothing much happened. Muriel collected 
underwear and linens, which were stored on the top of 
a closet. Eleanor stayed away for dinner about twice a 
week. Even that didn’t create quite the sensation it 
would have at some other time. There was a fuss the 
first time she called up and said she wouldn’t be home 
for dinner, but not so lusty a fuss as she had expected. 
The second time it was easier and after a while she 
managed to phone at times when her mother was out. 

It was funny about Ted. She thought about him a 
great deal, and wrote quite often. She was altogether 
sure of the way she felt about him, but she couldn’t 
honestly say she felt any great longing to see him. As 
long as she kept in touch with him and knew he was all 
right, and wasn’t going away to war, everything was all 
right. She still enjoyed being with Bud Lane when he 
came to town for week ends, and she still got the same 
mixture of amusement and irritation from her contacts 
with Chester Adelstein. But the school crowd—that is, 
the gang she’d met at Eva’s that night which now seemed 
so long ago, occupied more of her time and attention than 
anything else. They never did anything but sit around 
and talk. They had a pet coffee house near the school 
where they’d have dinner several times a week. It was 
nothing at all, really; it differed in no way from hundreds 
of similar groups of boys and girls in schools and colleges 
all over who like to sit and drink coffee and settle the 
problems of the universe. But to Eleanor it was a never- 
ceasing marvel. 



CHAPTER XI 


i 

It happened a little after three o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing, on the sixth of April. Of course, everybody knew by 
that time that war was virtually declared. They had 
known it, as a matter of fact, ever since von Bernsdorff’s 
dismissal, although it wasn’t a literal declaration. Then 
on the second of April came the President’s message to 
Congress, asking for war, followed on the fifth day by 
the Senate’s affirmative vote. So, really, the actual declar¬ 
ation, when it finally came, was in the nature of an anti¬ 
climax. But, nevertheless, there was something strangely 
exciting about the exact moment. 

The gang had gathered at Eva’s, and Hank had 
promised to call them the very instant the flash came from 
Washington. 

“We’ll wait,” they had decided, “even if it means stay¬ 
ing up all night.” With that possibility in mind Elly 
had arranged to sleep at the apartment. That, of course, 
had not been accomplished without its difficulties, but it 
was easier than it would have been six months before. 
Elly was making progress. The fussing and bickering 
had not precisely subsided, but it seemed to be more per¬ 
functory now, and done as a sort of automatic process, 
without a great deal of hope. Something like the way 
a lawyer makes formal objection on general principles to 
as many as possible of his opponent’s questions. 

And now they were waiting, quietly and gravely, no¬ 
body saying very much, everyone breathing a little faster 
175 


176 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


than usual. The evening had been different from any of 
their other evenings. Nobody had been terribly gay, and 
even Roberta had been subdued. They had talked mostly 
of what they were going to do. It was easy for the boys. 
They were eager and proud, and filled with plans that 
called for immediate action. They didn’t know exactly 
what they’d do, but it would be something that got them 
to the front right away. The girls were different. They 
wanted to do important things, too, but Eva, always prac¬ 
tical, rather took the romance out of it for them. 

“There’s no use getting all excited at the prospect of 
healing fevered brows and marrying wounded officers,” 
she said. “This is a real war, not a movie, and I’ll bet 
you they won’t let any woman overseas who isn’t an 
expert in whatever line she’s needed for. The thing for 
us to do is stay calm and wait for developments. We’ll 
probably be needed right here for a million things.” 

“Eve’s so damn sensible,” Bobbie grumbled. “Some¬ 
times I wonder how I can bear living with her. I want to 
go overseas. I’d look so well in a nurse’s uniform.” 

“That’s right,” Eva laughed, “but you faint at the 
sight of blood. You’d be a great help on a battlefield.” 

“Hoho.” Now it was Bobbie’s turn to laugh. “Shows 
how much you know. There aren’t any battlefields in 
this war. It’s all trenches.” 

“Stop squabbling, will you? This is the greatest occa¬ 
sion in the history of the world, and you sit around and 
fight.” This from Billy Tracy, who was nervously 
chewing his nails. “God, I wish that phone would ring.” 
The girls subsided. Everybody drank great quantities 
of coffee and smoked hundreds of cigarettes. Elly sat in 
the corner with a book. She didn’t want to talk, and the 
fidgety silence upset her. She wasn’t reading, really, 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


177 


although she made an effort to concentrate upon one of 
the Affairs of Anatol. She was thinking of Ted, remem¬ 
bering the day they had lunched together, and how the 
specter of war had shown her what he really meant to her. 
Strange, she was much less frightened at the prospect oi 
his going to war now than she had been then. Maybe it 
was because now it was his own country, and everybody 
else would be going, too. Somehow it didn’t seem quite 
so much like a great monster reaching out and grinding 
this one boy between its gigantic jaws. Still, it was a 
dreadful thought. 

It was eighteen minutes after three when the phone 
rang. At the sound a horrible sick thrill shuddered 
through Elly. The moment. Hank could stay on the 
wire only a second. 

U' “It’s all over,” he said to Eva. “Only fifty voted 
against it. Of course, Miss Rankin did, and of course 
she had to sob. Still that makes a good story. We’ll 
run it under a divisional head. ’By, I’ve got to get 
busy.” 

“If the world were coming to an end,” said Eva, turn¬ 
ing from the phone, “all Hank would say is T hope it 
breaks for the morning papers.’ Well, now that’s over. 
You’d better go, boys, we’re awfully tired.” Tom Berry 
got up, holding his coffee cup aloft, and spoke, very 
solemnly. 

“Listen, people,” he said, “this is a big moment for us. 
I don’t know just how long it will be before we’re all 
scattered, but it’ll be pretty soon. Let’s promise, no mat¬ 
ter what happens, that we’ll get together again the minute 
the show is over. And let’s all do everything we can to 
get the show over as soon as possible. I’m going to 
join up in the morning.” He sat down again. Nobody- 



178 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


answered for a moment. They all felt tearful and excited 
and choky, and full of high resolves. 

“That’s a good idea,” said Eva in a shaky voice. “The 
minute the war is over, and we’re all back in New York 
again, we’ll have a party here.” She stopped. It was 
easy to see by their faces that they were all thinking the 
same thing. If they were all there when the war was 
over. Well, that was a natural enough thought, and they 
were all a bit unstrung. 

Sleep was impossible, so getting into bathrobes and 
slippers after the crowd left, the three girls stayed up, 
Eva busying herself with clearing away the remains of 
the party, while Elly and Bobbie lounged comfortably 
and lazily on the couch. For several minutes nobody 
spoke. Each was busy with her own thoughts. Bobbie 
finally broke the silence.” 

“I wonder,” she said, “what we’ll be doing a year from 
to-night? Do you suppose it will be over by then?” 

“I don’t think so,” Elly said. “I know someone who 
knows a lot about it, and he says it will take a long time. 
A year from to-night! It doesn’t matter so much what 
we’ll be doing. Where will the boys be, and will they all 
be left by that time?” 

“You know,” put in Eva from the kitchenette, “I can’t 
seem to get any sense of reality from this. I can’t grasp 
it. We’ve lived in the shadow of it for so long, now that 
it’s here I’m not quite convinced.” 

“You’ll be convinced soon enough,” Bobbie told her. 
“Wait till the boys go away.” Eva came back into the 
room and sat down in the big chair. 

“I wonder,” she said speculatively, “what Paul will do. 
He’ll want to get right over.” 

“Oh, sure,” Bobbie agreed. “Paul loves excitement.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


179 


“Who is Paul?” Elly inquired. 

“Paul/’ said Eva gravely, “is Bobbie’s cousin once re¬ 
moved, and my husband.” 

“Also once removed,” added Bobbie. 

“Your husband!” Elly gasped. “I never dreamed you 
had one.” 

“Well, I haven’t got him any more, but I did have for 
several years. Until last summer, in fact.” 

“You mean you’re divorced?” 

“Yes. Does that shock you? It’s done, you know!” 

“Of course it doesn’t shock me, but it is a surprise. 
You never gave me the slightest inkling that you’d been 
married. It explains lots of things to me, though. I 
always wondered how you could know so much—just 
about things in general, you know—but that accounts 
for it. How long were you married?” 

“Five years. I was nineteen when I got married and 
twenty-four when I got my divorce.” 

“She didn’t work at it that long, though,” Bobbie con¬ 
tributed. “It really only lasted about three years, didn’t 
it, Eve?” Eva nodded in assent. 

“That’s all,” she said, “and I was ready to call it a 
lifetime even before then.” 

“Were you very unhappy?” Elly asked softly, her eyes 
growing wider and never moving off Eva’s face. 

“Aren’t you a sentimental little goose!” Eva laughed. 
“No, I wasn’t unhappy. That is, not acutely, or for any 
specific reason. Paul didn’t beat me, and he wasn’t even 
unfaithful—much. Anyway, I didn’t care about that. 
It was simply a case of the well known incompatibility. 
We grew up together, practically, the families were 
friends, we knew all the same people, belonged to the 
same clubs, and all that. We were kid sweethearts, too, 



180 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


and as soon as Paul got out of college we were married. 
There seemed to be no reason why we shouldn’t, and we 
didn’t know then that we didn’t really love each other. 
It was pretty good for about a year. Parties, and lots of 
things to do, and the excitement of a new experience. 
And of course there was the physical part of it. That 
carried us over for quite a while. The attraction was 
quite violent for the first few months, and even for some 
time after it was enough to keep me interested. But it 
wasn’t powerful or deep-rooted enough to last after I 
began to get bored with the man as a person. I tried to 
keep on because I hated to admit, even to myself, that I 
had made a mistake. But it got worse and worse. Just 
tiresome, you know. We didn’t quarrel. We simply 
didn’t have anything to say to each other. It dragged 
along for three years and then I went to Europe with the 
family. When I came back we decided to get a divorce, 
and we did. It was all very simple. Paul and I are 
perfectly good friends. We have occasional dates to¬ 
gether.” 

“Yes,” Bobbie laughed, “He’s the only man she can 
have a date with and be sure he won’t try to kiss her be¬ 
fore the evening’s over.” 

Eleanor was silent. She sat regarding Eva with an 
amusing mixture of astonishment, wonder and sudden 
comprehension. A dozen questions rose to her lips, but 
she managed to refrain from asking any of them. She 
opened her mouth to say something, then decided not to 
and closed it again. 

“You look just like a goldfish when you do that,” 
Bobbie told her. “What were you going to say?” 

“I don’t know,” Elly answered. “About a million 
things at once.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


181 


“Well, fire away,” Eva said. “All questions cheerfully 
answered.” 

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Elly asked. “Sure 
you don’t think I’m intruding on your private affairs?” 

“Don’t be silly. I spoke of it myself, didn’t I? As 
a matter of fact, I have no feeling that it’s any particular 
private concern of mine. My feeling about the whole 
thing is purely impersonal. I can talk about it just as 
though it were somebody else’s life I was discussing. 
What would you like to know?” 

“Well, for instance, now that you’re alone again, how 
do you feel? Don’t you ever miss being married? Really 
being married, I mean.” 

“Lord, no. Far from it. On the contrary, I might 
have even continued being married if it hadn’t meant 
really being married. That business, my dear Eleanor, 
I must regretfully inform you, is a vastly overrated 
pastime. For me, at any rate, and so far as I can 
observe, for a great many women. Only, unfortunately, 
that’s one of the things you have to find out for yourself. 
Most women have to, I mean. It’s like a college degree, 
or making a good fraternity. You don’t know how un¬ 
important it is until you’ve accomplished it, and then 
often it’s too late to help you any.” 

“I’m glad you feel that way about it,” Eleanor said. 
“I sort of had that idea, but I never got a chance to 
check up on it with anyone who really knew. Of course, 
some of the girls I used to go with are married now, but 
I don’t see them much, and, anyway, it would be hard to 
talk to them about it, well, academically. They’d either 
say it was too sacred to discuss or they’d get to telling 
dirty stories.” 

“Well,” Eva went on, “I can sum up my attitude toward 



182 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


sex in a single sentence. I feel about it exactly the way 
some people feel about liquor. I can take it or leave it 
alone, and Fd rather leave it alone. It really compli¬ 
cates things so terribly. Of course there are a few women 
who are very highly sexed, and they probably have a 
deep need for it, the same as most men. But they are in 
the great minority, I’m sure. For most women sex is just 
an unavoidable part of marriage, something they put up 
with because it’s in the bargain. They want a home and 
someone to support them, or they want children, or they 
just want the knowledge that they are married, and that’s 
something that goes with it. Of course I haven’t taken 
a census of all the women in the world, but I do know a lot 
of married women, and with a few exceptions that’s about 
the way they feel. And I don’t mean, either, that they 
absolutely hate it, that it’s repulsive to them. It’s just 
something they could easily get along without.” 

“Well, then,” Elly pursued, “how about all the girls 
who do, without being married? How do you explain 
them?” 

“That’s not so hard. If you leave out the ones who 
are seduced by villains—and that’s not many—and the 
ones who are in it professionally, I should say the large 
majority of those who remain do it because they’re 
curious. It’s a mysterious subject, and they want to find 
out what it’s all about. Married women league together 
and speak mysteriously about this thing that they’re in on 
and these other girls are not. That’s what makes a lot 
of them try it. Of course, again, there are some girls who 
are really passionate by nature, who are simply over¬ 
whelmed by their emotions, who need fulfillment that way. 
But I don’t think they make up a tenth of the girls who 
live with men. There’s another explanation, too. Lots of 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


183 


girls love men who can’t marry them, or who don’t want 
to, and although they don’t feel any overwhelming passion 
for the men, they give themselves because that’s the most 
convincing way of showing their love. Oh, there are 
dozens of reasons.” 

“You’ve omitted one big one,” put in Bobbie. “An 
awful lot of girls trap themselves into it because they get 
a man started and then don’t know how to stop him. 
That’s where I’m good. I don’t want to boast, but just 
as my contribution to this little clinical discussion allow 
me to state that I’ve been nearer the edge and still not 
gone over, than any girl I’ve ever heard of. I’ve been in 
situations that I could sell to the movies for a million 
dollars, and still managed to retain my technical virtue. 
I don’t know why I bother, either, because it isn’t worth 
a thing to me. Only I get quite a lot of fun out of playing 
a game with myself. I enjoy the danger, I like to put 
myself in a precarious position and then see what hap¬ 
pens. And it isn’t really hard to defend your alleged 
honor if you’re just a little bit clever. I usually throw 
myself on their mercy, and it practically always works. 
Men love to be magnanimous. I’ve extricated myself 
from some pretty darn tight places by the simple expedi¬ 
ent of appealing to the man’s vanity. Another thing, most 
men won’t be the first. If you can just keep ’em remem¬ 
bering you’re a virgin, you’re safe, no matter where you 
go or what you let them do. Don’t you think so, Eva?” 

“Oh, yes. And the funny part of it is they think that’s 
very noble of them. They go around striking attitudes 
and saying how they wouldn’t dream of seducing a virgin. 
But, really, all that their nobility amounts to is fear. 
They don’t want the responsibility. It’s so much safer 
for them if the girl’s been there before.” 



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WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Well,” said Elly, “they can’t all be that way, because 
look at all the girls who aren’t virgins. Somebody has to 
start them. There has to be a first time once.” 

“That seems logical enough,” laughed Bobbie. “But 
you’ll notice it’s never the men you know who do it. It’s 
always some other fellow, some bounder of their acquaint¬ 
ance. Men are awful fools!” 

“Not to make a pun or anything, Bobbie,” Eva said, 
“but aren’t you riding for a fall? You won’t be able to 
get away with that forever. Some time or other you’ll 
meet a man who isn’t quite such a fool.” 

“Probably you’re right. But you’ve been telling me 
that for the last five years and I haven’t met him yet. 
Anyway, if I do meet a man who’s smarter than I am in 
that respect, more power to him. He’s perfectly welcome 
to my virtue. Virtue is a state of mind, anyhow, and I 
don’t feel any more virtuous now because I’ve managed 
by hook or crook to keep my virginity intact, than if I 
hadn’t. As a matter of fact, I’m probably a lot lower 
than the girls who’ll go the whole way. They’re more 
honest.” 

“Yes,” said Eva, “strictly speaking, you’re a cheat.” 

“No, I’m not,” Bobbie answered. “I never make them 
think I’m going to and then at the end refuse. I tell ’em 
right at the beginning what to expect. If they want to 
play my way, all right. If not, we don’t play.” 

“And”—here Elly interrupted, her voice a little eager 
—“of course they always say they’ll play your way, be¬ 
cause in the back of each one’s head is the idea that he’ll 
be able to outplay you. You know, ‘you’re just a smoul¬ 
dering volcano, little girl. Some day you’ll meet the right 
man.’ ” 

“You get it, too,” Bobbie chuckled. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


185 


“Doesn’t everybody?” Elly asked, not waiting for an 
answer. “Really, Eve,” she went on, “I don’t think 
Bobbie is a cheat. If you establish a few rules before 
you start it’s perfectly fair. After all, what does it 
amount to? The man wants one thing and you want 
something else. You’re going to try to get what you 
want without letting him get what he wants, and he’s 
going to get what he wants if he can. It seems to me that 
you’re playing just about as fair as he is, anyway. As 
long as you don’t take a high moral tone about the girls 
who do, I think it’s all right not to. Now, if Bobbie 
boasted about her virtuous character, and condemned the 
kind of girl who’s willing to go the whole way, then I’d 
call her a cheat. But she says she doesn’t consider her¬ 
self any better than they are—a little worse, in fact. 
What could be fairer than that? Personally, I don’t agree 
with her about being worse. I think we’re all about the 
same. It’s all relative. Some girls don’t let men kiss 
them or touch them until they’re engaged. I think that’s 
silly. I enjoy being kissed and made love to in a mild 
sort of way. If I liked it a little more hectic, like Bobbie, 
I’d have it that way. But I don’t consider myself morally 
superior to Bobbie because she experiments a little more 
than I do, and she doesn’t consider herself morally su¬ 
perior to the girls who conclude the experiment. We’re 
all doing about what we like, getting the thing we want 
from life, or trying to. And that’s the most honest thing 
anyone can do.” 

“Well, well, harken to the little philosopher,” Bobbie 
said, laughing indulgently. “You know, really, Eleanor, 
you get away with murder. Eve and I go around thinking 
that you are a little innocent, unworldly thing, in dire need 
of our protection. And then every once in a while you 



186 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


say something that reveals a streak of instinctive knowl¬ 
edge and hardness in you. It’s that look around the eyes, 
and your hesitating manner that fools people. Don’t lose 
it. It’s a great asset.” 

“I’ll try not to.” 

The clock struck five. 

“Let’s conclude the performance for the present,” sug¬ 
gested Eva. “We really must get some rest. Tomor¬ 
row’ll be a hard day.” 

Elly slept on the couch, or rather, she tried to. For 
another hour she turned and tossed and kicked up the 
covers. Finally she fell asleep, just as dawn came through 
the windows. In spite of that she was up again in time to 
go to school with Eva and Bobbie. School, of course, was 
in a state of great excitement. The boys were more or less 
clannish, grouping together in knots and deciding what 
they would do. The whole atmosphere of the city was 
one of wild excitement. Flags were flying everywhere, 
people were talking excitedly on the streets, recruiting 
stations were opened at once, posters appeared as if from 
nowhere. In one day the whole world they knew had 
changed. They were all a little mad. 

2 

In less than a week it was as if there had never been 
any other state of affairs. How quickly you got used to 
things. Here she was, thinking about everything in terms 
of America-in-the-war, while a short time ago, with the 
thing imminent, she never gave it any consideration. 

She heard from Ted. He was coming right down, he 
wrote in a hasty note, and would join up within a week. 
He wanted to be sure to get in an outfit that would go 
right over. She felt awfully proud of him, while she 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


187 


worried. She went to the station to meet him, kissed him 
unashamedly when he alighted from the train, and plunged 
right into his plans. They were forming an officers’ train¬ 
ing corps at school, he said, and he had a chance to get 
into that, but he thought he’d rather get in one of the 
regular camps, because he had a hunch the college corps 
would be a long time getting overseas. 

It was only a few days before he was off to camp. Fort 
Meyer, Virginia, was the training camp they sent him to. 
It was pretty good, he wrote the second day, but it looked 
as though there’d be mighty little time to write even notes, 
they were kept so busy. 

“I have to save up minutes here and there during the 
day,” he said, “so I can manage to work in a shave. I’ll 
bet the soldiers in the trenches don’t work as hard as we 
do. But there’s one satisfaction. We’re going to be put 
through double-quick, and that means getting over.” 

That was the only thing the boys spoke of those days— 
how soon they could get over. The ones who really 
wanted to chafed at every delay, and the ones who didn’t 
really want to, spoke of it even more. By June practically 
every boy that Eleanor knew was in a uniform of some 
sort. Most of the boys from school were in officers’ train¬ 
ing camps. Bud Lane, who wanted action, said little and 
joined the Marines. He was the first of the lot to go 
overseas. Chester Adelstein was commissioned a first 
lieutenant in the Advocate General’s Department and was 
stationed at 39 Whitehall Street. He wore the smartest 
of uniforms, and the most expensive boots. 

He did look nice in his uniform, Eleanor admitted, and 
she felt rather pleased to be seen with him. People looked 
at him admiringly on the street and in restaurants. There 



188 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


was a thrill in just being with any boy in a uniform those 
days. 

Ted, meanwhile, slaved away at Fort Meyer. One day 
a telegram came announcing that he had won his com¬ 
mission and would be home on leave in two days. Eleanor 
called up the Army Building breaking a date to go dancing 
with Chester. He was simply blotted out of the picture 
as soon as she knew about Ted. 

She fairly leaped to meet him as he stepped off the train. 
He looked wonderful, with the gleaming gold bar on his 
shoulder and the newly erect carriage. They walked 
across the Pennsylvania terminal lobby together, and 
every time a private saluted him she beamed with delight. 
It was wonderful, this war, and jolly. It gave an added 
fillip of joy of life. All the danger and ominousness 
seemed to be gone. 

It wasn’t long before Elly found her own niche. Just 
as Eva had predicted, there was no call for untrained 
women to go overseas. And, besides, Elly was too young 
by seven years. Twenty-five was the age set for foreign 
service. With Bobbie Burton, who burned to get to 
France, she made the rounds of the Red Cross, Y. W. 
C. A., even the Salvation Army, for a chance, but in vain. 
After a while they gave it up. Bobbie joined the Motor 
Corps and looked just as stunning in the handsome uni¬ 
form of that organization as she would have in the blue 
and white of a nurse. Elly had to content herself with 
helping around the War Camp Community Service, doing 
a variety of odd jobs. Sometimes she was put on duty 
in the little information booths that were scattered all 
over the city, other times she served as a guide in the 
sight-seeing buses in which soldiers and sailors were taken 
on tours of New York. Now and then she was stationed 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


189 


at a canteen. It was all very jolly, and didn’t interfere 
much with school. She arranged her classes so she had 
two full mornings a week free and nearly every afternoon 
after two-thirty. The only drawback was that she didn’t 
rate a regular uniform. All she got was a blue armband, 
with the W. C. C. S. insignia on it. But she bought a very 
plain dark blue serge suit and a severe sailor hat, which 
gave her a sort of uniformed appearance. And she looked 
very nice, too. It was awfully interesting, and gave her 
lots to write to Ted and Bud about. Bud was seeing 
action and seemed from his occasional letters to be enjoy¬ 
ing it tremendously. He spoke of the fighting very cas¬ 
ually, and dwelt more upon the fun he had while on leave. 
His letters only served to heighten Elly’s impression that 
the war was by way of being a bit of pleasant, if exciting 
diversion. There were, of course, moments when the 
newspaper accounts of battles depressed her considerably, 
but those moments were comparatively infrequent. 

It did something else, too. It brought about a consum¬ 
mation of Muriel’s most devout wish: Irving Houseman, 
having won an ensign’s commission, was ordered aboard 
a destroyer, and before he sailed they decided to announce 
their engagement. He and Muriel were all for getting 
married, but the Hoffmans wouldn’t hear of that. It was 
unfair to Muriel, her parents said. Supposing, God for¬ 
bid, anything should happen, and she should be left a: 
widow at her age? And that might not be all, either, as 
Mrs. Hoffman pointed out. Even if young folks did think 
they knew it all nowadays, nature sometimes fooled them. 
No. Marriage was out of the question. But the plan of 
announcing the engagement met with unqualified approval. 
No harm could come of that. They had intended to an¬ 
nounce it in June if the war hadn’t come along, and now 



190 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


it was September, and Irving would be sailing shortly. 
And having no sons to put the war on a personal basis for 
her, Mrs. Hoffman felt rather pleased at the idea of an 
official prospective son-in-law. 

It was wonderful for Muriel. There was a great thrill 
the Sunday morning that the engagement was announced 
in The Times. Ordinarily Mrs. Hoffman wouldn’t have 
dreamed of doing anything so unrefined as that, but 
everybody was being economical on account of the war, 
and she didn’t think it would be right to spend a lot of 
money on engraved announcements. So there it was in 
The Times: 

Hoffman — Houseman. Mr. and Mrs. Milton Hoff¬ 
man, 504 West End Avenue, announce the engage¬ 
ment of their daughter, Muriel, to Ensign Irving 
Houseman, U. S. N., son of Mr. and Mrs. David 
Houseman, of 508 West End Avenue. At home on 
Sunday, September 27th, from three to six. 

That was another thing occasioned by the war. Mrs. 
Hoffman and Muriel would have liked a hotel reception, 
but they thought it would be more fitting under the cir¬ 
cumstances to have it at home. Everything very simple. 
No splurge. 

It was a lovely reception. Muriel looked very sweet in 
an afternoon dress of cream lace, with a blue and mauve 
sash, and a corsage of orchids. And Irving in his new 
uniform was a handsome and stalwart figure. Muriel’s 
ring was simply divine, everyone agreed. It was so simple 
and yet so stunning. A square cut diamond—they were 
awfully new then—set very chastely in platinum. For an 
engagement present Irving’s parents had given her a lovely 
little service pin—stripes of tiny diamonds, rubies and 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


191 


sapphires, with a little star in the center. It was a sweet 
sentiment, Mrs. Hoffman thought, but rather impractical. 
After all, she could have worn one of the regulation 
enamel service pins for Irving, and what would she do 
with this thing when the war was over? Of course, as 
Muriel pointed out, she could always have the stones set 
into something else. 

Eleanor watched the entire proceedings with a slight 
feeling of envy. Not that she begrudged Muriel her hap¬ 
piness and excitement. But she couldn’t help wishing that 
she could be just as publicly proprietary of Ted. Nearly 
every girl had someone who really belonged to her, for 
whom she could wear a service pin, about whom she 
could talk intimately—a father, a brother, a husband, a 
fiance. It was all part of the war game. 

3 

She spoke to Ted about it when he came up next time, 
and he told her that she was a lot closer to him than 
Muriel was to Irving, but that didn’t help much. He 
even bought her a little enameled service pin, which she 
wore for a few days, but later put away because she felt a 
little as though she were cheating by wearing it. 

It was November before she saw Ted again, and this 
time it was good-by. He was ordered overseas. He had, 
of course, to spend his last day with his family, but the 
day before that he came to call for Elly at twelve o’clock. 
They were going to lunch and to the theater. Then they 
were going to have dinner somewhere and go home after¬ 
ward, as the family would be out. Through lunch they 
were very gay and festive, eating at Murray’s Roman 
Gardens because they could dance there. As they fox¬ 
trotted around the floor Elly could notice people looking 



192 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


at Ted and commenting on how handsome he was. He 
did look gorgeous in his uniform. The army training had 
cured him of much of his untidiness, and straightened his 
slouching shoulders. His face was deeply tanned from 
the outdoor life and altogether he was a figure to com¬ 
mand admiration. Elly was frightfully proud. 

They went to see Why Marry? which they adored, and 
which kept them gay throughout the afternoon, although 
they both grew quite intense over the difficulties of Estelle 
Winwood and Shelly Hull. All lovers reminded them of 
themselves. 

Between theater and dinner there was nothing special 
to do, so they got on a bus and rode down to Washington 
Square, wandered aimlessly around the square for a while 
and then sauntered, in spite of the rather stiff weather, 
west on Fourth Street, looking into all the silly little shop 
windows, with their painted cigarette cases, orange smocks 
and trick jewelry. 

“I wonder what it’d be like to live down here!” Elly 
said. “I’d like to try it some time.” 

“I guess it would be fun,” hazarded Ted, “the only 
thing is you’re so labeled if you do. You know, profes¬ 
sional Bohemian. A reputation to live up to. If you ever 
get to the point where you can beat it away from home, 
go to some other neighborhood, then no one can say you’re 
only doing it to be Bohemian.” Elly laughed. 

“Swell chance of ever getting away.” 

“I’ll bet you’ll do it,” he said. “When I come back I’ll 
help you, if you haven’t done it by that time.” 

They walked about the village a bit more, then went 
back to the square and started uptown again. Dinner in 
the Claridge Grill. 

“Let’s go there,” Elly said, “I love their grapefruit 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


193 


cocktails. The music is good too, and we can sit along 
the wall.” They danced there too, and it was after eight 
when they left. Through the whole day both had care¬ 
fully refrained from the remotest approach to the subject 
of his sailing. They went uptown on a bus, and Elly, al¬ 
though she hated the cold, was prompted by some instinct 
to suggest riding on top. She knew obscurely that she 
wouldn’t be able to get sappy up there; she’d be too much 
occupied trying not to freeze. And she didn’t want to get 
talking about his going, because she was afraid she’d do 
something silly. 

Home, they found themselves alone in the house, with 
the exception of Katie, who was occupied in her own 
room. 

In the library they lapsed into silence. She had switched 
off all the lights except the desk lamp which glowed dimly. 
It was exactly like that day almost a year ago, Elly 
thought, when Ted first announced his intention of going 
to war, only now he was really going. Strange, his really 
going wasn’t a bit worse than that first thought had been. 
She looked at him and smiled. She was determined to be 
brave. From the depths of the big rocker where he was 
sitting, he held out his arms, and she flew into them. He 
kissed her hair and eyelids and her mouth, and she kissed 
the top of his head and the tip of his nose and the cleft in 
his chin. 

“Smile,” she commanded, “I want to kiss the dimples. 
I love your dimples, Ted. I wish I had some. Smile 1 ” 

“Silly,” and he grinned, making deep crevices in his 
cheeks. She marked them with her little finger, then 
kissed them. “Love me?” 

“Of course. Do you?” 

“You know I do, lunatic.” 



194 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“You won’t get married to anyone else while I’m 
away?” 

“How ridiculous. Of course not. You won’t fall for 
one of those beautiful French girls, will you?” 

“Nope. They’re not beautiful, anyway. They’re too 
fat. And their ankles are bad. I don’t think it will be 
hard to stay true to you. It’ll be harder for you, with all 
these swivel chair officers hanging around.” 

“Well, you know what a lot of use I have for them, 
don’t you?” indignantly. 

“Don’t get mad, darling. I know you’ll wait for me. 
And then I’ll get a job, and as soon as I have enough 
money to take care of you, we’ll get married.” 

“Will we have to live in Jersey City?” 

Ted laughed. “Gosh, no. I hate the place. I’ll get a 
job over here and we’ll live wherever you like. It’s much 
cheaper there, though.” 

“I know,” Elly agreed, “but by that time I’ll be work¬ 
ing, and I’ll be able to buy my own clothes. Besides, you 
know I’ll get the money my grandmother left me when 
I’m twenty-one.” 

“Well, that’s a long time off. We can settle the details 
when I come back.” She wished he wouldn’t say that. 
Every time he mentioned coming back, a horrid fear 
clutched at her mind. Supposing he shouldn’t? Some of 
them didn’t. She buried her face in his tunic, and clung 
to him. He held her close, and sat there silently, rocking 
rhythmically back and forth in the dim light. How long 
they sat that way Elly did not know, but a slight noise 
down the hall brought her back to realities. 

“What time is it?” she asked. Ted told her it was half 
past ten. 

“We must be all shipshape before mother gets in,” she 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


195 


said, smoothing her hair and her dress. “And wait here a 
minute.” She ran into her room and came back with a 
square box. 

“This is to take with you,” she said, giving him the box. 
In it was a silver cigarette case, engine-turned, with his 
monogram in the corner. 

“Oh, gee,” he said, “this is swell.” He snapped it open 
and found it filled with Camels. “You’re a peach. Thank 
you. I’ve got something for you, too,” and from his 
tunic pocket he fished a small tissue paper package. He 
handed it to Elly somewhat awkwardly. Unwrapping it 
she discovered a bracelet of antique gold, flexible and 
linked with delicate chains. 

“Oooh,” she breathed, “it’s beautiful.” She held up 
her face to be kissed. 

“I hope you like it,” Ted said. “I wanted to get you a 
ring, but I knew that would make difficulties, so I thought 
a bracelet would be the best substitute. Your mother 
won’t mind that, will she?” 

“Don’t care if she does.” 

“Look where I’m putting it,” said Ted, as he placed 
the cigarette case in his hip pocket. “If I come home and 
tell you that your gift saved my life, the way it always 
happened in Civil War stories, you’ll know that I must 
have been crawling on my hands and knees away from 
the enemy at the time. Oh, say,” and he took it out again, 
“haven’t you got a picture I can put in here? I haven’t 
got a single one of you.” 

“Well, I have nothing but that album of snaps that we 
took up in the mountains.” She found it, and together 
they went through the book, exclaiming over the snaps 
and reminding each other of events of past summers, until 
they found a picture that satisfied Ted. He tore it care- 



196 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


fully from the album, and pasted it into the cigarette 
case. 

“Guess I’ll have to go now,” Ted said, looking at his 
watch and finding it after eleven. “I’d rather be gone 
when your folks get in. You know how older people 
are.” 

“Yes. I think it would be better, too.” She smiled, 
tremulously. Ted smiled back, and when he spoke his 
voice was husky. 

“Let’s not act foolish, kid,” he said. “We’ve had such 
a good time all day and I want to take away a bright 
picture.” Eleanor gulped. 

“All right,” she said shakily, but smiling. “I won’t act 
foolish. Only you’d better hurry. Beat it before I fall 
down on the job. I’m no stoic.” 

“What a good sport you are,” Ted answered. “C’mon 
then, good-by. It won’t be for long.” He held her tight 
for a minute, kissed her very hard, opened the door and 
was on his way down the hall to the elevator. “ ’By,” he 
called. Elly stood in the doorway, tears blinding her. 

“ ’By,” she called back. Her voice sounded quite 
normal. When the elevator had gone down she shut the 
door and went back into the library. She sat down in 
the rocker, which was still marked with the imprint of 
his figure. 

After a minute or two she dried her eyes and started, 
almost automatically, to straighten up the room. She 
picked up the old snapshot album and stood looking at 
the page from which he had torn her picture. Right next 
to the torn space was a snap of Ted which had been taken 
on the same day. She looked at it thoughtfully, and shook 
her head. 

“Do you know,” she said aloud, “I don’t believe I’ll ever 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


197 


see you again.” Then, as though she had suddenly heard 
herself, she smiled, and returned to normal. How she was 
dramatizing the situation. Probably every girl thought 
the exact same thing. Of course he’d come back. Noth¬ 
ing could possibly happen to him. He was too alive, too 
vital. And, besides, he was too lucky. 









BOOK II 





















CHAPTER XII 


i 

She never did see him again. 

The circumstances under which she learned of his 
death were much more dramatic than any she could, even 
with her instinct for the dramatic, have devised. 

It was Armistice Day. Coming home late in the after¬ 
noon, after the hours of wild excitement to dress for a 
party to which she was going with Chester Adelstein, she 
found a letter on her dressing table, a letter with a Jersey 
City postmark. Wonderingly she looked at it, wonder- 
ingly, and with a vague unformed fear. Finally she tore 
it open. It was from Rose Levine, Ted’s sister. 

“Dear Eleanor” [it said simply]. “Em taking it for 
granted that you'll want to know. Ted was killed in 
action on the twentieth of October. We received the 
official notice last week, but you can understand that I 
couldn’t get around to letting you know sooner. 

“I don’t know how we’re going to bear it. He was so 
wonderful. And I know it will be hard for you. Please 
come to see us some time, won’t you? Yours, 

“Rose Levine.” 

Elly sat on the edge of her bed and read the note over 
and over. For a long time her mind simply refused to ac¬ 
cept it. It just didn’t mean anything. Her whole being 
was numb. Then the numbness gradually left her and the 
idea began to penetrate her brain. Ted was killed. He 
didn’t exist any more. Killed on the twentieth of October. 
And today was the eleventh of November, and the war was 

201 


202 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


over. What difference did it make now, whether the war 
was over or not? There was only one reason why she had 
wanted the war to be over, and that was so he would 
come back. She remembered the night he went away. 
She’d said to herself then that she’d never see him again. 
But she hadn’t believed it. She’d only said it because it 
was the dramatic thing to say. And it was true. She’d 
never see him again. She opened the dressing table 
drawer and took out the letters he’d written from over¬ 
seas. There were only a few, and the latest one had been 
mailed on the eighteenth of October. He’d been dead 
when she received it. And all those days she’d been going 
to dances and parties and having a good time, without 
the faintest premonition that he was gone. That seemed 
the crudest thing of all. Something should have told her. 

Katie came in with her evening dress, which she had 
been pressing, and that reminded her of to-night’s party. 
She couldn’t go. She simply couldn’t face people. There 
was only one thing she wanted to do, and that was crawl 
into bed and cover up her face and stay that way forever 
and ever. 

She was cold, shaking with a chill. She took off her 
dress, put on a warm bathrobe, and got into bed. Mrs. 
Hoffman, coming home a few minutes later from an after¬ 
noon of bridge, found her there. 

“What’s the matter?” she exclaimed. “Do you feel 
sick? Have you got any symptoms?” The influenza epi¬ 
demic was still raging at the time. Eleanor reached under 
the pillow and handed her mother Rose’s note. Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man read it and burst into tears. 

“How terrible!” she exclaimed. “Poor Mrs. Levine. 
Thank God I have no sons.” 

“Mother,” Eleanor asked, pleadingly, “will you do 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


203 


something for me? I can’t go to that party tonight. Will 
you call up Chester and tell him I’m sick, tell him you’re 
afraid I’m getting the flu or something. Please?” Mrs. 
Hoffman, without argument, agreed. She went to the 
telephone and lied nobly. Elly could tell from her 
mother’s conversation that Chester was expressing con¬ 
cern. And within an hour there was delivered to her a 
great box of roses, with Chester’s card. 

It wasn’t until she saw the flowers that she cried. Then 
the dam burst, and she abandoned herself to hysterical 
sobs. 



CHAPTER XIII 


i 

For two weeks Elly walked about in a daze. The ex¬ 
citement and thrill of the early days of peace meant noth¬ 
ing to her. In fact, there was no meaning to anything. 
She just did things automatically, ate, worked, went to 
school, slept. There was nothing in the world except the 
fact that Ted was out of it. He would never come back. 

Mrs. Hoffman, gently but determinedly, spoke to her. 
It wouldn’t do, she said, for Elly to continue moping that 
way. After all, she may have been very fond of Ted, 
but she hadn’t been married to him, or even engaged to 
him, and what was the use of giving up all her friends 
and good times. 

“I don’t want to,” Elly replied, “but I just can’t help it. 
I couldn’t have a good time if I did go out. Being with 
other boys would only make it worse instead of better. 
I’d keep thinking how much nicer he was.” 

“That’s silly,” Mrs. Hoffman argued. “You didn’t see 
him so very much when he was . . . alive. And you 
managed to enjoy the company of other boys.” 

“But that’s just it,” Elly told her. “I knew he was 
somewhere, and the fact that the others weren’t as nice as 
he only made it better when I did see him. Oh, you can’t 
understand.” 

Still, it was quite true what her mother said, she came 
to realize. She couldn’t stop her own life, just because 
his life had stopped. She must pick things up and go on. 
Well, she would do what other people did when they were 
badly hurt, she decided. She would plunge deeply into 
204 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


205 


work. She would try to get a job. Mr. Carver had been 
most encouraging about her designs, told her she had 
good prospects for the future. She didn’t know exactly 
what she could do, but it would be something in the the¬ 
ater, she thought. She wanted to design costumes and 
make posters, chiefly. But there were steps you had to 
take to reach that place, and she didn’t know exactly how 
to go about it. She wondered who would be the best per¬ 
son to advise her. Eva knew a lot of people in the adver¬ 
tising and theatrical business. And, of course, there was 
Henry Wells, who knew everything and everybody. She’d 
get in touch with him. Hank had never got beyond Camp 
Upton, and he managed to get to town quite frequently. 
She’d write to him there and ask him to meet her and 
talk it all over with her. 

Suddenly she found herself smiling. It was the first 
time she’d smiled since Armistice Day, when the letter 
came. She tried to figure out what the smile meant, and 
discovered by retracing the steps of her thoughts that 
she had been smiling in anticipation of her future success 
as an artist. How awful of her, she thought, to be able to 
smile that way. For a few moments she had actually for¬ 
gotten to grieve. 

In a sense it was alarming. To be able to forget like 
that! 

Her return to life dated from that moment. Not that 
she stopped thinking of Ted, or caring for him. But the 
sharpness of the pain lasted such a very little while. 
Things went on, days passed inexorably. Gradually she 
found she could say his name without wanting to die, with¬ 
out a frightful stabbing pain in her heart. He was her 
own Ted and she loved him, but there was less and less 
poignancy to the wound caused by his death. 



206 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


It wasn’t quite such a hardship to be with Chester, 
after a little while. At first everything he did served 
only to remind her of Ted, but soon that stopped and he 
was just Chester again. Elly felt more than anything else 
a tremendous resentment against herself for recovering so 
quickly. She found she didn’t hate life after all. She 
was aghast at herself. Maybe she hadn’t loved him at 
all. What a shallow nature she must have. 

It occurred to her one day that now she could return, 
with increased force, to her campaign for freedom. With 
Ted gone there was nobody in the whole world who had 
any real claim on her. She belonged to herself again. 
Maybe there was something more than blind chance in his 
being killed. He’d always wanted her to be free, and yet, 
although he was the symbol of her freedom, he was be¬ 
ginning to bind her, would have bound her more if he’d 
come back and married her. Because she would have 
grown to love him so frightfully that her whole being 
would have been his instead of her own. It would have 
been wonderful, of course, and she would have happily 
given up the idea, but it almost seemed that his death was 
a sign to her that she must keep on. 

One of the first things she must do then, she decided, 
was to get some work, something that would necessitate 
being out a good part of the time, something that would 
take her into still another world. Because look at what 
going to art school had done for her! It had been hard, 
to be sure, but had brought a measure of freedom that 
she had never dreamed of. And if she explored still fur¬ 
ther into the world outside, she would gain even more 
freedom. It would be even harder than school, she knew 
that. Her parents never believed that she meant to work, 
and Mrs. Hoffman, in particular, cherished a not too 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


207 


secret belief, fostered by hope, that now with Ted for¬ 
ever gone, she might regard the attentions of Chester 
Adelstein with a little more favor. 

2 

Elly wrote to Henry Wells, who met her for lunch one 
day the following week. She explained to him that she 
was eager to find work of some kind, and told him the 
reason. 

“It doesn’t matter much about the money,” she said. 
“Because no matter how much he may storm and rave, I 
know father’ll never pull the stern parent act on me. But 
I do want to get started in that direction, because some 
day I’ll want to live alone, and I think that’s the best way 
to plan for it.” 

“You know,” she went on, “I don’t think so awfully 
much of this career stuff for itself as most girls are sup¬ 
posed to. The way I see it, it’s a means to an end. If I 
make good at drawing it will be a sort of way out for me. 
A kind of substitute for getting married. Not as good, of 
course, but still something. It’ll be something to hang 
my peculiarities on.” 

“You’re a wise kid,” Hank grinned. “Do you think 
you’ve got enough stuff?” 

“Well,” Elly told him, “Carver thinks I’m pretty good, 
and he’s not easy to please. Look, I’ll show you some of 
the stuff.” And she opened a portfolio containing plates 
and sketches. 

“Mmmm,” was Hank’s comment. “I don’t know a: 
damn about this stuff, but it looks all right to me. I’ll tell 
you, I’ll give you a note to Morgan Princeley. He’s gen¬ 
eral manager for the Kalbfleisch outfit, and what that bird 
doesn’t know about the theater isn’t worth knowing. If 



208 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


he likes this stuff he’ll help you get started. He can help 
you, too. A word from him is an open sesame to prac¬ 
tically any theatrical office in New York. He’ll flirt with 
you, of course, but don’t pay any attention to that. He’s 
harmless, even if people do call him the Casanova of 
Broadway. And, listen, I’ll speak to the Sunday editor 
about you. Sometimes they give out fashion work. Care 
to do that?” 

“Of course. I’ll do anything.” 

“Well, I’ll ask Grover, and let you know if he has any¬ 
thing. If I were you, as long as it isn’t a question of 
making a living, I wouldn’t take a straight job with any 
one firm. Go slowly and free lance. You come out bet¬ 
ter in the end that way. You can make much more 
money and your stuff appears in a lot of different places 
instead of being concentrated.” 

An hour later Elly was sitting in the reception room 
of the Kalbfleisch Production Company, waiting for Mor¬ 
gan Princeley to read Hank’s note of introduction. 

The first thought that registered in Elly’s mind was 
that he didn’t look in the least like the popular conception 
of a theatrical manager. In the first place he wasn’t fat, 
in the second place he didn’t have a derby hat on, and in 
the third place there wasn’t a big black cigar sticking 
out of the corner of his mouth. 

“How do you do, Miss Hoffman,” he said, holding out 
a soft hand, “I’m glad to meet you. Any friend of Hank 
Wells is a friend of mine. We worked together in St. 
Louis. But I left the newspaper game a long time ago. 
The work’s too hard for an old man like me.” Elly 
smiled. 

“What pretty dimples you have,” he said. That made 
her smile more, because she knew perfectly well that she 
hadn’t any dimples at all. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


209 


“So you want to get some art work to do? Hank says 
your stuff is pretty good.” 

“Yes, I’m anxious to get started,” Elly said, “and Mr. 
Wells told me you were the very best person in New York 
to see.” 

“Well, I have a certain amount of influence in the¬ 
atrical circles,” Princeley admitted. “Let’s see your 
sketches. Although a pretty little creature like you 
doesn’t really need to work if she doesn’t care to. What 
you need is a daddy to take care of you. How does that 
idea strike you?” His tone was altogether conversa¬ 
tional, as though he were inquiring about the weather. It 
was perfectly plain to Elly that this was merely part of a 
formula which the man applied to all girls. 

“I don’t care so much for that idea,” she said gravely, 
and with as much casualness as she could muster. “It 
doesn’t fit in with my plans.” 

“Oh.” He said it with a gentle sigh, and a little gleam 
of amusement shone in his small, satyr-like eyes. His 
hair, too, she noticed, graying hair that had once been the 
color of her own, was curly like the hair of satyrs in 
statues, and she looked down at his shoes, to see whether 
he had cloven hooves instead of feet. He was a kindly 
satyr, though. 

“I just wondered. Of course, there would be more 
subtle ways of finding out,” he continued, “but why waste 
tim,e? It doesn’t make any difference to me, you under¬ 
stand. I’ll do just as much to help you, either way, only 
it’s easier if I know your exact requirements.” 

“Mine are simple,” Elly said. Somehow, in spite of 
his perfectly astounding remarks, he inspired her with a 
feeling of friendliness. She remembered what Hank Wells 
had said—he was harmless, even if he was called the 
Casanova of Broadway—and she had a feeling that he 



210 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


would really help her, that it would be all right to tell 
him her ambition. 

“It’s hard to explain in a few words,” she went on, “but 
what I want is to sort of belong to myself. I’ve been fight¬ 
ing since I was about fifteen, to escape from my environ¬ 
ment, and I don’t want to get out of one thing and into 
another. That’s one reason why I’m not interested in the 
daddy idea.” Princeley beamed upon her. 

“You’re clever as well as beautiful,” he said. “You 
ought to go far. How old are you?” 

“Twenty.” 

“You’re pretty sensible for twenty.” He opened her 
portfolio, and was just drawing out the sketches when his 
telephone rang. Ten minutes elapsed while he conversed 
gaily with someone, obviously a woman. When he had 
hung up he turned to Elly and said: 

“Know who that was? That was Mrs. Reginald Van 
Huysen. Invited me to a week-end party she’s giving at 
Tuxedo. Yes, I manage to get to quite a few society 
events, even if I’m just plain Morgan Princeley of Broad¬ 
way.” 

“The Casanova of Broadway,” Elly said, her cheeks 
flushing a little. Princeley threw back his head and 
roared. 

“Is that what they call me?” he asked, with evident 
delight. 

“That’s what I’ve heard,” she answered. “Are you?” 

“Oh, I’m not so bad,” he said. “If anything comes my 
way, I take it, but I never work hard to get it. I believe 
in letting the women set the pace. If what you want is 
to be friends, that’s what we’ll be. I’ll guarantee you’ll 
be as safe as in your mother’s arms. You really ought to 
come and have dinner with me at my apartment some 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


211 


time. You’d enjoy my books. Do you know that I have 
one of the best collections of English prose of anybody in 
America? And I have some books on art that would inter¬ 
est you tremendously. You must come up some time. 
How about it, baby?” 

As always to hide her embarrassment, and a feeling 
that she did not know how to cope with this strange man, 
Elly sought refuge in silence and her slow smile. And as 
usual, it availed. 

“You’re a pretty wise kid for your age,” he repeated. 
“Very mysterious, too. You pique me. It’s too bad you 
don’t want to play with me. I could teach you a whole 
lot of lovely things about life. But, to tell you the truth, 
I think you’ve got the right dope. Keep on belonging to 
yourself as long as you can. It’s the best way. See my 
motto,” and he pointed to a framed sign on the wall near 
his desk. “Be hard; live dangerously,” it said, and under¬ 
neath was the name of its author, Nietzsche. “That’s the 
way to live if you want to own yourself in the end. And 
be very careful of men; you won’t find many like me, 
who’ll let you set the pace. You’re too pretty. Why, you 
look just like Simonetta, when Sandro Botticelli loved her 
in the spring time. Your hair is exactly the color of hers 
and . . .” The stenographer called in shrilly: 

“Miss LeMaire on 3400, Mr. Princeley.” He picked up 
a wire and turned his face, beaming, to the transmitter. 

“Hello, baby,” he said. “Tonight? Where? . . . 
Sure. We’ll do a little hoofing. . . . Whose Rolls-Royce 
are you riding in this week? . . . You’re certainly a 
speedy worker, kid. ’By.” 

“Yes,” he went on, exactly as though there had been no 
interruption, “your hair is the color of Simonetta’s, and 
your eyes, too. You have a spiritual, intellectual face. 



212 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Do you know what George Moore said?” Not waiting to 
discover whether she knew this particular utterance or 
not, he continued: 

“He said that no man could find his true passion except 
in an intellectual woman. A girl like you brings out the 
best in a man. I certainly could fall for you, baby.” 
Elly, smiling, was aware of a growing impatience. This 
was awfully amusing, and enlightening to a degree, but, 
after all, she had come here for a definite purpose, to find 
out whether he could help her get some work to do. And 
he seemed not a bit nearer that part of the meeting than 
he had when she came in. She didn’t exactly know what 
to do. Some instinct told her to curb her impatience. If 
you want something from a person, you must adapt your¬ 
self to his tactics. But she fingered the portfolio mean¬ 
ingly, and his straying attention was caught. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, “let’s see them.” He drew out sev¬ 
eral sketches and ranged them on his desk. “Hm,” he 
murmured, “They’re not at all bad. Where’d you say 
you study? Oh, Carver’s. Good man, I know him well. 
Now, let me see, where can I send you. You want a 
place where you can learn as well as work, don’t you?” 

“Well, Hank thought I ought to try to free lance, not 
take a definite job with one place.” 

“Fine. That makes it easier. I’m pretty sure you can 
get some part time work up at the Try-Ad Corporation. 
They do mostly theatrical work, but a little commercial 
stuff, too, like perfumes, underwear and things like that. 
They’re always giving out assignments, and I’m pretty 
sure they’ll find something for you if I send you over. 
I’ll write a note to Paul Bradley, he’s the art director. 
You go right over with it, and I’ll call him up while you’re 
on the way. He’s a good scout.” Princeley sat at his 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


213 


machine and laboriously typed out a note. Elly collected 
her sketches and glanced around the room. Pictures 
of actresses, cluttered with quotation marks. Framed let¬ 
ters from celebrities, thanking him for one thing or an¬ 
other over a period of ten years. She wondered how old 
he was. He looked about forty. But he seemed to have 
done so much, been so many places, lived such a lot; he 
must really be older. 

He turned from the typewriter, handing her the note. 
“See,” he said, “I’ve told him you are an old friend. He’ll 
be very nice to you, and I’m sure he’ll give you some 
work. Now run along and catch him. I know he’s 
always in at this hour.” 

“Oh, thank you,” she said, some of the eagerness escap¬ 
ing from her in spite of her efforts to keep quite calm. 
“It’s awfully nice of you to bother.” 

“Why, it’s a pleasure to help a sweet thing like you. 
Any time. Let me know what happens, and drop in once 
and a while for a little chat.” He walked toward the 
door with her, and before he opened it he stopped, catch¬ 
ing her by the shoulders. 

“Got a nice little kiss for papa,” he asked, “before you 
go?” He bent and Elly ducked her head ever so slightly. 
They missed connections. He laughed. “Oh, well,” he 
said, “if you don’t want to it’s all right with me.” And, 
laughing, he ushered her out. 

Passing through the reception room she felt the apprais¬ 
ing eyes of the stenographer and office boy upon her. It 
was a horrid feeling. Coming out of that private office 
with its closed door made her feel exactly as though she 
had a great scarlet letter emblazoned upon her dress. 
Funny. The appearance of guilt was just as bad— 
worse, really—than guilt itself. What you did didn’t 



214 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


seem to matter. It was what people thought you did. 

On the way down to the Try-Ad Company Elly flew. 
Her steps were so light and fast that she barely touched 
the ground. Her heart was beating wildly and she could 
feel her eyes shining. She had the consciousness of look¬ 
ing pretty. Oh, if she could only get something to do, no 
matter how little. It would be such a definite step in the 
direction of liberty. 

Mr. Bradley was expecting her and he sent out word 
that he would be with her in a minute. The minute turned 
into fifteen, and Elly was just getting to that slightly 
wilted state that is inevitably brought about by too long 
a wait for a possible employer, when a neat young woman 
came out and conducted her into Mr. Bradley’s office. 
He looked at her sketches which he proclaimed interest¬ 
ing but not startling, and said he thought he could fit her 
in somewhere. 

“I don’t know exactly what I want you to do,” he said. 
“There are a couple of campaigns you could work on, and 
I’ll think it over and let you know tomorrow which you’re 
to do. You’ll work directly under me. Come in at ten 
o’clock tomorrow morning, and we’ll lay out our plans.” 
He looked up with an air of dismissal. Elly rose. 

“Thank you, Mr. Bradley,” she said. “You . . . 
you’re not just doing this for Mr. Princeley’s sake, are 
you?” He smiled. 

“No, child, don’t worry. Your work is good, and I’m 
sure you’ll be useful. And I like to have someone decora¬ 
tive around me. As a matter of fact, you’ll be able to 
learn a lot from me. Be sure to be here on time in the 
morning.” 

“Oh, yes,” she gasped, and ran out. In the street, she 
found that it was four o’clock. She turned toward Fifth 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


215 


Avenue and walked rapidly north. Everything in her was 
singing. How easy it had been. No struggles of a poor 
little girl in a great city. She wondered what it would be. 
Mr. Bradley seemed awfully nice. It would be lots of fun 
working there. From his office, which was on Fortieth 
Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenue, you could see 
Bryant Park and the Bush Terminal Building. It was a 
poetical sort of place. How lovely life was. Oh! A 
sharp pang smote her as suddenly she remembered Ted. 
How could life be lovely when he was not in it? But it 
was. That was the ghastly part of it. What a shallow 
person she must be, Elly thought, ruefully, to be able to 
forget grief so easily. But try as she would, she just 
could not remain sorrowful. There was tomorrow, when 
she would really get started on some work. How on earth 
could she keep that secret over night? It would be hard 
not to tell, but she knew that she should wait until she 
had some specific information to give her parents. 

She walked to Fifty-ninth Street and then mounted a 
bus for home. She tried to read, but couldn’t. She 
wanted to do something, to dance or jump around, to 
make funny happy noises. But she didn’t because she 
didn’t know how. She was a grave soul, and didn’t really 
know how to behave under the strange emotion of happy 
excitement. But this thing was blazing up within, this 
thing she had felt the first day she’d stayed down at Eva’s 
for tea and had come late in the taxicab, a kind of power 
inside her to do anything at all she wanted. A power to 
withstand any onslaught. She owned the world. That 
was it. 

3 

As a matter of fact, it proved to be not at all hard to 
refrain from telling the family about her promised job. 



216 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Irving was at the house for dinner, and they were dis¬ 
cussing plans for the wedding. 

“Well, of course/’ Irving said, “I’m in favor of a small 
family affair. I’d rather just drop in on Dr. Hirschberg 
some afternoon and call it a wedding, but I know we could 
never get away with that.” 

“I should say not,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “You really 
act as though getting married was something to be 
ashamed of. After the way I’ve worked and slaved all 
my life for my children, I should at least have the pleas¬ 
ure of seeing my daughter married decently. It would 
be bad enough if her father couldn’t afford it. But under 
the circumstances. . . . And as long as I can’t expect 
any pleasure from my oldest child”—a withering look in 
the direction of Eleanor accompanied this sally—“I might 
as well get all the happiness I can from Muriel. Besides, 
she wants her friends at her wedding, don’t you, darling?” 

“Certainly.” Muriel smiled prettily at Irving. “After 
all, Irv,” she said, “a girl’s only a bride once.” Irving 
laughed. 

“You’re optimistic,” he said. “You can’t tell nowa¬ 
days.” Mrs. Hoffman was shocked. 

“Irving,” she remonstrated, “you shouldn’t talk like 
that, even in fun. It might be bad luck.” 

“Have you decided on a date?” Eleanor inquired. 

“Not definitely,” Muriel answered. “We thought April 
would be a nice month. We’ll just be engaged two years 
then, and that’s long enough for anyone. And I don’t 
want to be a June bride. June’s such a common month to 
get married in.” 

“But you’ll have to stop school. If you waited till June 
you’d be through that, and ready for regular teaching. 
You know, in case of the well known emergency.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


217 


“Aren’t you cheerful,” Muriel exclaimed. “Irving 
doesn’t want to wait, do you, dear? And he doesn’t want 
me to be a teacher, anyway.” 

“No,” Irving said, “I guess I’ll be able to take care of 
my wife all right.” 

“I think the fifteenth of April sounds nice,” Muriel 
said. “Wonder what day that’s on?” Irving took out a 
pocket calendar and consulted it. “It’s a Sunday,” he 
said. 

“Lemme see,” said Muriel, snatching it from him. “Oh, 
yes. Well, that’s out, then. How about Tuesday? That’s 
the tenth.” 

“All right wtih me.” 

“Well, you don’t have to settle that right this minute, 
do you?” Mrs. Hoffman said. “It only takes two weeks 
to get the invitations out. You can make your final de¬ 
cision later. We’ll have to start looking for a hotel.” 

“Well, I know one place I won’t have it,” Muriel said, 
emphatically, “and that’s the Astor. They don’t even 
speak English there. The official language is Yiddish.” 

“How about the Biltmore? The Vanderbilt is rather 
nice. Quite exclusive, too.” 

“Well, the thing to do is go around and see the ball 
rooms.” 

Mr. Hoffman spoke for the first time. 

“Of course,” he said, “my only connection with this 
whole business is a financial one, but don’t you think I 
might have something to say about it? Suppose you per¬ 
mit me to go along with you when you look for the hotel.” 

“Why, of course, Milton,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “I 
didn’t think you’d care to be bothered, that’s all. I’d 
much rather have you with me. It’s such a responsi¬ 
bility settling those things alone.” 



218 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


All during dinner and throughout the evening plans for 
the approaching nuptials were under discussion. A 
couple of times, Eleanor picked up a book and tried to 
read, but each time she was reproved by her mother, for 
being heartless and lacking in interest. 

“I suppose you’ll balk at being maid of honor,” Mrs. 
Hoffman said. “Honestly, you’d think you didn’t belong 
to this family at all. You show so little interest in your 
own sister’s wedding.” 

“Of course, I’ll be the maid of honor,” Elly replied, “but 
I don’t see why I have to jump through hoops now. After 
all, you’ll settle it without me. If it were my wedding I’d 
just go down to City Hall and get married by the clerk.” 

“That’s right,” said her mother. “Anything to be dif¬ 
ferent. I swear to God, sometimes I don’t believe you 
are my own child. If you had been born in a hospital in¬ 
stead of at home, I’d positively believe the nurse had 
mixed you up with some other baby. It doesn’t seem 
possible that any daughter of mine can have the ideas you 
have.” Eleanor didn’t answer. She didn’t want to quarrel 
tonight, and answering would have meant quarrelling. 
Instead she just hugged her secret closer. Wait until 
tomorrow night. Then she’d have something to say. 

She went to bed early, and abandoned herself to fever¬ 
ish planning for the future. Of course, now that Ted 
was gone she’d never get married. She’d work hard, be 
very successful, make a lot of money, and devote her 
entire efforts to getting free and staying free. 

Getting the job meant a terrific lot to her, but not be¬ 
cause it was starting her on the way to a great artistic 
career. Eleanor had no illusions about her future as an 
artist. She liked to fool around with line and color and 
texture; she adored the theater and its glamor caught 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


219 


her, but she had no dreams of greatness. Career in the 
sense of tremendous achievement never occurred to her. 
To her a career, as she had said to Hank Wells, was 
simply a means to an end. She sensed dimly that with 
the words artistic and career to play with it would be a 
little less hard for her to get her essential self into her 
own keeping. If she talked, when the right time came, 
about furthering her career, it would be a shade less hard 
to get away. She didn’t really feel that way about it, 
either. It seemed to Elly that if you wanted to be by 
yourself that was enough reason why you should be; that 
career and all that sort of thing should be unnecessary. 
But mixed up with all her curious dreaming about spiritual 
integrity, was a streak of hard practicality. Money talks, 
so does a reputation. People who “do things” always 
have more liberty. Even her mother believed that. How 
she would feel about it when it came right down to cases, 
Elly wondered. But this much she knew—she must em¬ 
phasize the career stuff for all it was worth, it would be 
the lever upon which she would have to swing her ultimate 
going. 

The thought of her ultimate going suffused her whole 
being with warmth and light. The picture she evoked of 
solitariness always made her feel the way a romantic girl 
would when a vision of her prince-on-a-white-charger came 
to her. Lofty, thrilled, filled with a literal ecstasy, almost 
unbearably poignant. Some day she would be alone, and 
her soul would be her own. And she could shut out 
everything she didn’t want. 

Somewhere inside her a little voice clamored. That 
was a selfish way to live. Gravely she regarded the accu¬ 
sation. Yes, she decided, but living this way was only a 
sop to the selfishness of others. When you came right 



220 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


down to it, all life seemed to be a tournament of selfish¬ 
ness. If you were unselfish, then you were simply cater¬ 
ing to the selfishness of someone else. It was merely a 
question of poising one person’s selfishness against an¬ 
other’s. And it seemed to her that the question was 
simply which was more important. Anyway, she decided 
comfortingly, it was more than selfishness in this case, it 
was self-preservation. Eventually, if she remained, it 
would get her. So she would have to get away physically 
in order to keep free spiritually. Yes, that was selfish, 
she concluded, but she guessed she’d just have to be sel¬ 
fish. Nothing seemed so important as keeping her spirit 
alive. She would do that, she said to herself, clutching 
the pillow hotly, at any cost to anyone. 

At ten o’clock the next morning she presented herself at 
Paul Bradley’s office. He was ready for her, and this 
time there was no waiting. 

“Hello there,” he said gayly, as she came in. “All 
ready for work? Well, I’ve about decided on what you 
can do. We’ve recently taken on a fashion letter stunt 
for Kleins, the song publishers. Their press agent has a 
syndicate of about seven hundred papers, and she can 
shoot this stuff to all of them. Our job is to write about 
three letters a week and have each one illustrated. Now, 
we use the names of different girls who are singing Klein 
songs—some of them are in shows that Klein publishes, 
others are vaudeville singers who use their popular songs. 
You don’t have to draw the particular girl; just some 
sort of fashion sketch that will tie up the story. Think 
you’ll like that?” Elly spoke eagerly. 

“It sounds wonderful.” 

“Well,” said Bradley, judicially, “it’s good for a be- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


221 


ginning. Not hard, regular, and tied up with the theater. 
That’s what you want the most, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, oh, yes. I’m crazy about the theater.” Bradley 
smiled at her eagerness. 

“Righto,” he said. “Then we’ll start right in, shall 
we? Now, we must settle our financial arrangements, 
too. You’ll have three sketches a week to do. I’ll pay 
you five dollars each. How does that suit you?” 

Elly nodded. Fifteen dollars a week. Right at the 
beginning, and for such easy work. It was wonderful, 
unbelievable! 

“Do you want me to work here?” she asked. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Bradley said. “Do the sketches 
home and drop in here a couple of times a week. Later 
on I’ll have other work for you, and sometimes I hear 
of outside stuff that people want done. Be sure of one 
thing, though. Always keep a week ahead. Do six the 
first week and if you can get in an extra one now and 
then, do it by all means, because you never know when 
you’re going to get behind for one reason or another. 

“And, listen,” he said, “let me give you one piece of 
advice. Sign everything. No matter how insignificant 
it is, sign it. There’s nothing so important in this busi¬ 
ness as having people recognize your name. Even if 
they don’t know where they’ve seen it, it’ll convey some¬ 
thing to ’em if they know they’ve seen it somewhere.” 

Elly floated over to school on air. She went to Mr. 
Carver’s office and told him all about it. He was de¬ 
lighted. 

“I knew you could do it,” he said. “You’re an intel¬ 
ligent girl, Eleanor. I liked you from the start because 
you never wore red or pink. When a girl with your 
coloring has sense enough to stick to brown, green and 



222 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


blue, then I know she’s all right. You’re staying in 
school?” 

She explained that the work would take up very little 
of her time, and that she would surely finish the term. 

“That’s good,” said Mr. Carver. “I don’t want to let 
you go yet. You’re no Leonardo, but with the right 
guidance you should make a considerable commercial suc¬ 
cess.” Elly glowed, and skipped downstairs to tell Eva 
and Bobbie. They were duly thrilled. 

“How marvelous,” exclaimed Bobbie, “How’d you ever 
do it?” Elly explained and Bobbie laughed. 

“Hank Wells! What do you know about that? Has 
he a crush on you? He never offered to find a job for 
me.” 

“Have you ever let him know you wanted one?” 

“Well, no. But that’s not it. You’ve got that ‘pro¬ 
tect me’ air. People are always wanting to help you. 
You’ll see. You’ll always get everything you want.” 

“That’s true,” put in Eva, “but there’s something more 
than that. In spite of that ‘protect me’ stuff, which is a 
dam good act, by the way, Elly seems to sort of have 
some quality that makes people feel she’ll be able to go 
through with whatever they help her to get. Know what 
I mean? Don’t you remember, when she first came to 
the house, you said you got a sense of potential accom¬ 
plishment from her?” Elly, standing by, was pleased, of 
course, but embarrassed. She had never grown altogether 
accustomed to this trick of Eva and Bobbie, of discussing 
a third person just as though he were not present. 

She was aching to get home and tell the family about 
it. She wondered whether they would be interested at 
all. Muriel’s imminent marriage occupied such a large 
part of the horizon that such little matters as jobs for 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


223 


Eleanor were likely to be overlooked. That had its ad¬ 
vantages, too, Elly decided. It would further her aims to 
just that extent without occasioning any particular 
trouble. 

They were interested, of course, but just as she had 
figured, the wedding plans were so much more important, 
that the news was given the most perfunctory attention. 
For the first minute, before she learned it was a part 
time job, Mrs. Hoffman was a bit jumpy, but when 
Eleanor explained that she could do the work in half 
an hour a day, her mother subsided. 

“And I’ll get fifteen dollars a week for that, too,” Elly 
said. “I’d hardly get much more than that teaching the 
first year.” 

“See, Milton,” Mrs. Hoffman said, “it wasn’t such a 
bad idea to let her go to art school, after all.” The other 
three grinned appreciatively at each other. Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man was like that. No matter how tremendously she 
might have opposed an idea in its inception, if it met with 
success later, she invariably assumed the credit for hav¬ 
ing originated it. At this moment she positively believed 
that she had been in complete accord with the plan from 
its very start. And nobody disabused her mind. What 
was the use? She seemed in a good humor, best keep her 
that way. 

Eleanor was glad she had a date with Chester Adel- 
stein that night. She wanted to impress someone with 
her news. 

He was not only impressed, he was disapproving, and 
Elly gloried in his disapproval. 

“Oh,” he said, when she told him, “I suppose you’ll be 
more impossible than ever now. Fifteen dollars a week! 
You’d think it was a fortune.” 



224 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Well, it is, when you earn it yourself, and can keep 
on going to school. I won’t have to take anything from 
my father now. And it won’t be long before I make 
more. Mr. Bradley says I’ll get more work right along.” 

“I can’t see why you’re so anxious to earn money. You 
won’t keep at it long.” 

“Oh, won’t I?” 

“No. You’re normal, like other girls. You’ll want to 
get married and settle down. Oh, why can’t you be 
sensible, like your sister?” 

“Why,” asked Elly, laughing, “should it make so much 
difference to you?” 

“Because, damn it,” Chester replied, “I happen to be 
crazy about you. I don’t know why I am. You’re every¬ 
thing I disapprove of. But I fell for you the first minute 
I saw you. In fact, I fell for you before I ever knew 
you. God! They told me you were different, but I 
didn’t think you’d be like this. Sometimes I hate you, 
Elly, but I’m crazy about you just the same, and some 
day when I’m able to, there’s something more important 
I want to speak to you about.” She giggled at this. 
He would say it that way. 

“That’s why I can’t see you starting this professional 
career stuff. That’s all right for girls who have to, but 
there’s no need for it in your case. It’ll only make 
things harder later on.” 

He was referring to his family, she knew, but not being 
in the mood for arguing, she did not press him on that 
point. She was satisfied, anyway, the news had got a rise 
out of him. It was more of a rise than she’d bargained 
for or wanted, but, the point was, her great step had 
been recognized by someone. 



CHAPTER XIV 


i 

Eleanor slipped into the routine of work with the same 
ease and pleasure that she had slipped into the routine of 
Mr. Carver’s school. From the beginning she got along 
well with Paul Bradley. His interest had been aroused 
by her good looks and her very evident delight with the 
opportunity he was offering her. And her talent was suf¬ 
ficient. He was pleased, too, with the fact that she had 
no illusions about her future. He confessed himself tired 
of romantically inclined young men and women, willing, 
eager in fact, to starve for their art, and Eleanor’s lack of 
sentimentality about her work appealed very strongly to 
him. 

The three figures a week for Klein’s publicity campaign 
were soon augmented by other work. Sometimes he 
would call her at school and she would go down to his 
office for a hurried assignment. Some lettering for a 
jeweler’s advertisement, an interior for a firm who manu¬ 
factured lace curtains, a dancing girl draped in the swirl¬ 
ing silks of some trade-named fabric. It meant quite a 
bit of money for her, but more than that, as Paul 
Bradley repeatedly assured her, it was practice. And 
when the right time came she would get a chance at some¬ 
thing really good. 

The family continued to be concerned chiefly with the 
approaching nuptials, so that Eleanor’s progress went on 
practically unnoticed. That was good for her plans. She 
had it pretty well worked out that after the spring term 

225 


226 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


was over she would go to work regularly for Mr. Bradley, 
and not go back to school in the fall. Muriel’s wedding 
was only a little way off in April; in June she, Eleanor, 
would be twenty-one, and Grandma Hirsch’s money would 
be coming to her. Then she could take definite steps 
toward getting a place of her own. Just thinking about 
it sent hot waves of feeling gushing into her throat. How 
would she go about it? What would her mother do? Of 
course Eva Gerrard would help her. It would be a slow 
process. But she had patience. She had waited so long 
without making any progress that was perceptible, really, 
—although she knew it was there—it wouldn’t be hard to 
wait a little longer for the real thing to happen. She was 
living toward it. It was the focal point of her whole ex¬ 
istence. Everything else she did, consciously or sub¬ 
consciously, devolved upon that. Even when she thought 
of Ted, as she often did, her melancholy was sweet rather 
than sharp; it was dreadful that he’d had to die, but now 
he could cause her no regret. Of these mental processes 
regarding Ted she was scarcely aware. She was conscious 
only of a feeling of puzzlement that she was not griev¬ 
ing more intensely, and a sense that somehow she was 
failing the dead boy by not mourning him more deeply. 

But, try as she did, he could never remain the sole occu¬ 
pant of her thoughts for very long. Other things, work, 
the future, the meaning of everything, jostled him rudely 
or crowded him out altogether. 

2 

Muriel’s wedding on the tenth of April made up in 
splendor for the enforced simplicity of the engagement. 
Even the day did its best for them, the sun glittering 
brilliantly through the windows of the Hotel Vanderbilt 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


227 


ball room, as Dr. Goodman pronounced “you, Irving, and 
you, Muriel, man and wife.” Muriel was calm. She did 
not show a trace of nervousness. She couldn’t be nervous, 
she said, because Irving was scared stiff. She was sure 
he’d say no when Dr. Goodman asked him “do you?” 

Mrs. Hoffman and Mrs. Houseman, as well as all the 
other matrons present, wept copiously during the cere¬ 
mony. Eleanor fidgeted. The responsibilities of her 
position as maid of honor weighed heavily on her and 
the marriage lines oppressed her. Always when she heard 
them she felt that same sense of a terrific weight. It was 
all so final, so forever! How could people dare? 

The bustle and clatter and confusion after the cere¬ 
mony recalled to Eleanor sharply the scene in front of the 
temple after their confirmation. So many years ago, and 
not the slightest difference in any of these people. Their 
thoughts were the same, their actions the same, their 
looks the same, except that most of them were show¬ 
ing signs of plumpness. Was she the only one who had 
changed? It was a rather terrifying thought, because if 
she were, it occurred to her, maybe she was the crazy one, 
and they were sane. 

A group of the “old girls” stood talking excitedly, 
waiting their chance to kiss the bride. Here were five 
girls with whom she’d been tremendously intimate a few 
years back, girls she’d seen every day, whose very 
thoughts she’d known. Now they seemed like strangers, 
aliens, whose language she couldn’t even comprehend. It 
was bad, she concluded, ever seeing them at all any more, 
because it made her worry about herself to see them all 
so untouched. 

“Doesn’t it make you feel funny, Elly?” asked Fay 
Wallberg, who had been Mrs. Harold Fink for two years. 



228 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Doesn’t what make me feel funny?” Eleanor asked. 

“Having Muriel get married first when you’re older.” 

“No, I can’t say that it does. I can’t see what dif¬ 
ference it makes.” 

“Muriel’d be a fool to wait for Elly,” contributed Hilda 
Adler, whose own wedding had taken place a short time 
before. “Elly was cut out to be the old maid of the 
crowd. She always had peculiar ideas. I wish I were 
as thin as you are. How do you manage it? Diet?” 

“No,” she said. “I just am. I guess it’s a sort of 
compensation for being peculiar.” 

“Oh, don’t get angry,” Hilda exclaimed. “I was just 
kidding. Come on now, girls, I think we can get a 
chance at her now. The relatives are nearly all through.” 
They made a dash toward the bridal bower, where Muriel 
and Irving stood bravely together, receiving the rather 
vigorous congratulations of their families and friends. 
Eleanor wished she could go. She was tired, but, of 
course, it was out of the question for her to leave. 

The wedding supper lasted for two hours. It was a 
marvelous meal and, as Mrs. Henry Katz was heard to 
say later, “the champagne flew just like water.” Toward 
its close, after all the speeches, including the one about 
all their troubles being little ones, had been made, and 
all the toasts drunk, Muriel left the table as unobstrusively 
as possible, followed by her mother, who seemed to think 
that by walking on tiptoe she would escape notice. 

In turn, Mr. Hoffman, Irving and Eleanor also left 
the table. Eleanor went to the room upstairs where 
Muriel was changing to her traveling clothes. Mrs. Hoff¬ 
man, in tears, was hovering nervously over her, very 
obviously trying to summon the courage to speak to 
Muriel. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


229 


“Would you mind running downstairs a minute, dar¬ 
ling,” she finally said to Eleanor, “I want to speak to 
Muriel about certain things.” The words were in capital 
letters and italics. Both girls laughed. 

“You can save yourself the trouble, Ma,” Muriel told 
her, “I know all about it.” 

“But” . . . Mrs. Hoffman, having brought her cour¬ 
age to the speaking point, hated to be cheated of her 
opportunity. 

“Honestly,” said Muriel, quite seriously this time, “I’d 
rather not talk about it. It’s quite unnecessary. Why 
don’t you run along downstairs to the others? Elly’ll 
stay here with me.” Reluctantly, Mrs. Hoffman swal¬ 
lowed her words of advice and information, and went 
back to her guests. Muriel turned to her sister. 

“I was dreading a scene like that,” she said. “I sup¬ 
pose it’s just impossible for her to realize that things 
aren’t the same now as they were when she got married. 
Thank God, too. Can you imagine anything more ter¬ 
rible than a last minute lecture on what every bride 
should know?” 

“Poor mother,” said Eleanor, “she does mean well. 
She wants to help you. It must be dreadful to be con¬ 
stantly wanting to give yourself to people who don’t want 
to take what you have to offer.” Muriel looked up from 
the bag she was packing, came over to where her sister 
was standing and put her hand on Eleanor’s arm. There 
were tears in her eyes. 

“You know,” she said, “I still love you better than any 
one in the world. Anyone. And no matter what hap¬ 
pens I always will.” 

Impulsively they kissed, and then as though ashamed, 
moved awkwardly apart. 



230 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Ell leave you alone to finish up,” Elly said. “I guess 
Irving is nearly ready. Good-by.” 

“Good-by,” Muriel replied. “I’ll write.” 

They managed to get away from the party without 
attracting the attention of the guests, and Irving’s legal 
mind had prompted him to engage rooms in the same 
hotel, by which simple and obvious trick he managed to 
elude the would-be jesters, who had planned a series of 
coy interruptions of the nuptial night. 

3 

“It seems awfully strange not to have Muriel here,” 
said Mrs. Hoffman tearfully, for the hundredth time, one 
night about two weeks later. “Just think, my little 
baby, gone away for good. It was a grand wedding, 
though. How did you like Mrs. Tobias’s dress? Not that 
it makes any difference what that woman wears. She’d 
look grand in rags, with her figure. Do you really think 
there was enough wine? And here’s her little gloves that 
she left on the dining-room table. I must put them with 
her baby shoes.” 

“Good Lord, Laura,” said Mr. Hoffman, with as much 
show of irritation as he could ever muster, “why do you 
keep talking of the child as though she were dead?” 

“Anyway,” added Elly, laughing, “why do you act 
as though she were your only child? You still have me 
to comfort you in your old age.” 

“A fine comfort you’ll be! You wouldn’t do a thing 
to make me happy! When you can get a fine boy 
like Chester Adelstein from a fine family, by just rais¬ 
ing your hand, you won’t even do it. It would be such 
a weight off my mind to see my two daughters nicely 
settled. But, no! Anything to be obstinate.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


231 


“I’ve told you a dozen times, mother, that I don’t 
care for Chester. He’s all right to go around with now 
and then, but I’d be perfectly miserable married to him. 
We don’t agree on a single important thing. And I don’t 
care for his family, either.” 

“Of course you don’t. Or your own family, either. 
Who do you care for in this whole world but yourself?” 

“You don’t want me to marry a man I don’t love, 
do you?” 

“Love, bah! If you respect a man and he treats you 
right you’ll learn to love him after you’re married.” 

“But I can’t see why you’re so anxious for me to 
marry. It isn’t as if I were a burden on you and had 
to get married in order to be supported. In the first 
place, there’s grandma’s money. I’ll get that in June. 
And, anyway, I can take care of myself. I’ll be earning 
quite a lot of money soon. And, after all, I’m only 
twenty.” 

“Nearly twenty-one.” 

“Well, you’d think that was ancient. Will you give 
me one real reason why you’re so anxious to get me 
married? Is it because you want me out of your way? 
If that’s it I’ll move, as I told you before.” 

“Now she’s starting again! What’s so strange about 
me wanting to see my daughter happily married? Isn’t 
that perfectly natural in a mother? I ask you, Milton, 
isn’t it?” 

“It’s a ridiculous discussion,” Mr. Hoffman said in an 
annoyed voice. “I wish you’d cut it out. Why is it 
you two can’t be together for five minutes without quar¬ 
reling?” 

“Can I help it if she’s so meschugah that she won’t 
listen to reason?” 



232 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“You haven’t answered me yet/’ Eleanor said dog¬ 
gedly. “I want a reason why you’re so anxious for 
me to marry. You say it’s natural for a mother to 
want her daughter happily married! Granted. But it 
is not natural for a mother to want her daughter un¬ 
happily married. And that’s what I’d be if I married 
Chester. And I’m not going to marry him now or ever, 
so you might as well resign yourself to that.” 

“Will you listen to that! You’d think I wanted her 
to do it for my sake.” Elly, forgetting all her resolves 
to be calm and considerate, turned on Mrs. Hoffman. 

“You do want me to do it for your sake. You do!” 
she exclaimed, rapidly, her voice rising to an unnatural 
pitch. “You’re always telling me how selfish I am, and 
how you’re doing things for my sake. As a matter of 
fact, you want me to marry Chester Adelstein to gratify 
your own ambitions. Because you think his family is 
important and you want to get in their set and brag to 
your friends about what a fine match your daughter 
made. And because you’re a thoroughly selfish woman! 
You want me to marry him so you can be happy, and 
you don’t give a damn whether I’d be happy or not. 
Oh!” Her voice broke and she burst into hysterical 
sobs. Mrs. Hoffman’s tears and wailing followed imme¬ 
diately after. 

“How can a girl talk that way to her own mother?” 
she asked. “Milton, can’t you do something with her? 
She’ll bring me to my grave.” 

“Cut it out, both of you! ” Mr. Hoffman assumed com¬ 
mand. “Elly, go into the bathroom and wash your face. 
Laura, control yourself! You’re behaving like a fool. 
Can’t a man get a little peace and quiet in his own house? 
After all, you know, I do live here.” Obediently Eleanor 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


233 


went to the bathroom to wash her face, and obediently 
Mrs. Hoffman attempted to control herself, her plump 
pink face working grotesquely with the effort. Elly came 
back to the living room, her tears dried and the sobs 
swallowed. She spoke very slowly, measuredly, trying 
desperately not to lose control. 

“Father,” she said haltingly, “you’ll never have peace 
and quiet as long as mother and I live together. We just 
can’t be together without fighting. She wants to own 
me—believes she has the divine right. I won’t be 
owned. If I happened to have the same ideas as she 
has, everything would be fine. But I haven’t. I’m will¬ 
ing for her to have any ideas she likes, as long as she 
doesn’t force them on me. But she isn’t willing for me 
to have any ideas other than hers, or for me to act in 
any way other than the way she dictates. She does 
it to you; she’s been tyrannizing over you ever since 
you were married, and she did it to Muriel. Well, you 
stood for it. After all, you selected her, so you sort of 
had to put up with it. But I didn’t select her. She was 
wished on me. And I won’t be owned!” Her mother 
gasped and made a violent effort to interrupt, but the 
girl was started now, and the torrent of her words, held 
back for so long, could not be stemmed. Her pace in¬ 
creased rapidly, and her voice trembled, but she held 
her tears in check. 

“You needn’t tell me I’m selfish or inconsiderate or any 
of those things,” she went on. “I’ll grant that. I’ll 
grant anything you care to say. But whatever I am, it 
makes no difference. I’m at the place where I’m fight¬ 
ing for my life. I won’t be forced into marrying Chester 
Adelstein, I won’t be nagged into it. Peace at any price 
may be your motto, but it isn’t mine. You’re a coward, 



234 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


you’re afraid of her. I’m not. There’s only one way 
for you to have peace and quiet in your own home and 
that’s for me to leave it, and I’m going to, just as soon as 
I can find another place.” 

“Oh, I’ve heard that before,” her mother said with a 
sneer. “You can’t scare me with that. If you think 
you can get along so well that way why don’t you try 
it? I’ve always told you if you didn’t like it here you 
could move. How about your swell artistic friends? 
Why don’t you go and live with them? See what they’ll 
do for you when you put them to the test. I suppose you 
think that just because you’ve earned a few measly 
dollars a week, you can be as independent as you like. 
Well, I’d like to see. You haven’t exactly set the Hudson 
River on fire yet. Go ahead; try living on what you 
earn yourself and see how you get along. Maybe your 
shicksas from Washington society will support you. Go 
on. Yah!” The girl’s face was deathly pale. Her eyes 
were blazing yellow lights, and she was trembling vio¬ 
lently. 

“All right,” she said, “I’ll call your bluff. I’ll ask 
them right now.” She turned, walked slowly down the 
hall to the library, closed the door, and in a low voice, 
called Eva’s number. Luckily, Eva was home. 

“Eve,” she breathed into the phone, “I’ve done it! 
Can I come down—right away? I’ll explain later.” 

“Sure, come right along. You won’t even have to 
sleep on the couch. Bobbie’s away and you can have 
her bed.” 

“All right, I’ll hurry. Be down in about an hour. I 
can’t say anything more now.” She went to her room, 
and rather slowly and methodically began to put things 
into her suitcase. All the underwear she could find, her 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


235 


serge street dress, her yellow chiffon evening dress, her 
georgette blouses for the suit she was wearing. 

She went through her dressing table drawer and care¬ 
fully gathered such little trinkets as she thought she’d 
need. A bar pin, a set of cuff pins, a pair of links; her 
linen handkerchief case. She found the pitiful little bulk 
of Ted’s letters from France, frayed and dirty, held to¬ 
gether, not with the traditional pink ribbon, but with a 
rubber band. 

“You always said I’d do it,” she said, mutely address¬ 
ing the writer of the letters. Even now, in the height of 
this situation, her omnipresent awareness triumphed over 
her sense of the dramatic, and she couldn’t speak aloud to 
the letters. She looked at them gravely for a moment, 
then put them in the bag with the other things. She 
made a swift survey of the room, to make sure that she 
had everything she wanted. Then she put on her hat 
and coat, left the bag in the hall and went back into the 
living room. 

“Good-by,” she said quietly. “I’m going now.” Her 
father looked surprised. Her mother incredulous. 

“Nonsense,” Mr. Hoffman said, “you’re not doing any¬ 
thing of the kind. Where did you think you were 
going?” 

“To my artistic friends,” Elly replied, mimicing her 
mother’s contemptuous tone. “They’re quite willing to 
take me in for as long as I care to stay.” Something in 
the dead level tone of her voice seemed to convince them 
that she meant it. 

“Oh, God!” Mrs. Hoffman shrieked, her pink face red 
with emotion, “she isn’t really going. She couldn’t. To 
leave her poor mother that way. Oh, Elly, darling,” her 
face working absurdly, as it always did when she was 



236 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


under the stress of strong feeling, “I didn’t mean it. I 
just lost my temper. Please stay, and I’ll never try to 
make you do anything you don’t want to again. I 
promise. Elly!” The girl stood quite motionless, look¬ 
ing disdainfully at her mother. If she only knew, thought 
Elly, how awful she looked when she did that, she’d stop. 

“No,” she said. “I’m going, really. There’s no use 
getting excited about it. We’ve fooled and fought long 
enough, and I’m sure we’ll all be better off if I’m away. 
Good-by! When you’re calmer I’ll meet you both some¬ 
where, or come up, and we can talk over the details. I’d 
rather separate amicably, but that’s altogether up to you.” 
Again she turned and walked slowly down the hall. With 
a wild shriek, Mrs. Hoffman followed her, dropping to her 
knees on the floor, and clasping Elly around the legs as 
she bent to pick up her bag. 

“Darling,” she screamed, as Elly tried to unloosen her 
arms, “don’t break your poor mother’s heart. Think of 
the disgrace. What will all my friends say? Oh, God, 
make her heart a little softer. It’s like a stone.” Strange, 
thought Elly, standing there, trying to disengage herself, 
how it all was turning out. And how flinty she was 
being about it. The wild appeals only helped to crystal¬ 
lize her determination. It was easy. She felt no kin¬ 
ship to this groveling, sniffling, hysterical woman on the 
floor. A little contemptuous sympathy, but that was all. 
The quiet exaltation of her mood carried her over any 
lesser feeling. She was getting away. She was saving 
the life of her soul. What did anything else matter? She 
felt equal to any fireworks. 

“Oh, cut out the drama,” she said in a hard little voice. 
“And good-by. I’ll call you up to-morrow.” With a 
wrench she managed to get away and made a rush for the 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


237 


door. As she rang for the elevator her mother opened 
the door and made one last outcry. 

“Elly,” she called, “come back.” There was no answer. 
Not waiting for the car, Eleanor flew down the stairs to 
the street, and entered into her new estate. The scene 
above was blotted temporarily from her mind. There 
was nothing in it but one word. 

Free . . . free . . . free . . . free. It sang in her ears. 
Every footstep made her freer. How easy the one step had 
been. It was the long approach that had been hard. But 
she’d lived toward it, and when the moment had come she 
had been ready. The struggles ahead did not occur to 
her then. Anyway, nothing could be quite so hard any 
more. The most difficult thing was accomplished. 

She was free now. The rest would be to keep free. 

She wanted to take a taxi down, but a sudden spirit of 
economy possessed her; if she were to be altogether on 
her own now, she must be careful about money. So she 
got on a bus instead, and climbed to the top. It was a 
night for bus lovers—nearly every seat was occupied 
by spooning, oblivious couples, but Elly scarcely saw 
them. In her mind there was room for only one thing. 
How simple it had been. How easy. After all these 
months—years really—of planning, and wondering, and 
fearing. And then all of a sudden it happened. Why, 
two hours ago she hadn’t even dreamed of it. 

Eva was alone when Elly arrived. 

“There were some people here,” she said, “but I got 
rid of them. I knew you’d want to be alone. Well! 
How did you do it? You never gave me the slightest 
warning.” 

“I didn’t have the slightest warning myself,” Elly told 
her, smiling tremulouslv. “Some little thing came up, I 



238 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


don’t even remember what, and it just happened. You 
know what it was like? Just exactly like blowing and 
blowing on a balloon. You keep on blowing to make it 
bigger, and you know it’s going to burst, but you keep 
on, anyway, you can’t stop, sort of, and then all of a 
sudden, pf! it’s exploded. That’s me.” Eva smiled in¬ 
dulgently. 

“I always knew you’d do it, eventually. It’s the best 
thing for you. Do you think you’ll have the guts to 
6tick it out? You know, they’ll exert all kinds of pres¬ 
sure on you to make you come back. It is rather hard 
on your mother, coming right now. Your sister isn’t even 
back from her honeymoon yet, is she?” 

“No,” said Elly. “That’s what started it. She be¬ 
gan moaning about Muriel, and we got into a row. It 
was a swell row, Eve. And you’d have been proud of 
me. I didn’t cry at all, hardly.” 

“Didn’t she make an awful fuss?” 

“Yes, of course. But she said all the wrong things. 
She said, ‘What will my friends think?’ And, honestly, 
Eva, I think that’s all she really cares about. It’s not 
that she’ll miss me so much. Gee, if I’d come and told 
her I was going to get married to Chester Adelstein she’d 
have been squealing with delight. But this is against 
the law of the tribe. That’s the only thing she’s worry¬ 
ing about.” 

“You’re a little hard on her,” Eva said gently. “That’s 
part of it, of course, but she really does love you, even 
if she has a funny way of showing it.” Elly looked at 
her queerly. 

“Are you going to get mushy now?” she asked. 

“No, only I couldn’t help thinking how hard it’ll be for 
her, with both of you gone at the same time. Now we’d 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


239 


better get right down to facts. I don’t suppose you’ve 
any special plans.” 

“No, it all happened too suddenly. I didn’t think 
of anything else but getting away. And she taunted me. 
About you. She said you wouldn’t help me.” 

“That was only natural. You knew I would, though.” 

“Of course. What do you think I should do?” 

“Well, you can stay here until you’re altogether set¬ 
tled. The first month will be the hardest. If you can 
stick that out you’ll be safe. Exactly how much money 
have you?” 

“At the moment I have about twenty dollars a week. 
Fifteen from the Klein work—that’s steady, and Bradley 
gives me other odd jobs to do every once in a while, but 
I can’t count more than an average of five a week from 
that. But you know on June ioth I’ll be twenty-one, and 
I’ll inherit some money from my grandmother. I don’t 
know how much, but it’s quite a bit, I think, because 
my father invested it or something and it’s been com¬ 
pounding since I was a little girl. My grandmother died 
when I was four. Isn’t it lucky for me she didn’t leave 
it in trust until I married? Anyway, it’ll be enough to 
pay rent somewhere, and a bit over. And they can’t stop 
me from getting it, either.” 

“Well, then, you stay here until you get that money. 
In the meantime we can be looking around for a place. 
Your money from Bradley will be enough to take care of 
food and incidentals. You don’t need any clothes, do 
you?” 

“No. Not if I can get the rest of my stuff from up¬ 
town. I’m afraid to go up, though. I might never get 
out again.” 

“You could go up sometime when there’s no one home,” 



240 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


Eva suggested. “That would be better for both of you. 
Now I think you’d better go to bed. You’re pretty tired; 
and you have a few pretty hard days ahead of you.” 
The phone rang as they talked. Elly looked at it appre¬ 
hensively as Eva went to answer. 

“If it’s my father, say I’m asleep.” It was Mr. Hoff¬ 
man, sounding grave and considerably shaken. 

“I don’t think he believed me,” Eva said, after she had 
hung up, “but he seemed a little relieved not to have to 
speak to you. He wants you to call him in the morning.” 

“Home?” 

“No. At his office.” 


4 

She awoke in the morning with a sense of impending 
doom. It was the telephone call. She hated the idea, 
but it must be done. Some contact with the family 
would have to be established, and she might as well do 
it right away and as casually as possible. 

“If I act as though nothing much has happened, maybe 
they’ll act the same way,” she said to Eva over the break¬ 
fast coffee, then added, “swell chance!” 

She waited until ten o’clock, and called her father’s 
office. He said very little, explaining that he couldn’t talk 
freely from there, and asked her to come downtown at 
noon. 

“We’ll go to lunch together, and thrash the matter out,” 
he said. She tried to gauge his attitude from his voice; he 
sounded most of all grave, a little hurt, too. But she 
thought she could detect a tiny note of sympathy which 
he couldn’t quite down, although he was trying. 

When they met in his office they were both rather white 
and nervous. Nothing was said until they got outside* 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


241 


No use letting the stenographer in on the whole thing. 
Those people talk so much. 

When he finally did get around to it, his manner was 
quite conversational. 

“How long do you think you’ll have to stay away be¬ 
fore your discipline becomes effective?” he asked. 

“It isn’t discipline,” Elly said. “And I’m not coming 
back. There’s no use pretending to humor me and think¬ 
ing you can get me to follow you home like a baby after a 
rattle. I’d rather be separated on a friendly basis, but 
that, of course, is up to you and mother. If it means 
coming back home and being forgiven or never darkening 
your doors again, why, I’ll never darken them, that’s all. 
It’s quite simple.” Her father looked at her in wonder. 
His lips smiled, but his eyes were hurt. 

“I never dreamed you had it in you to be so hard,” he 
said. “You haven’t even asked about your poor mother. 
Oh, it was a cruel thing you did last night. And at this 
time, too. Why, you’ve ruined her whole joy in Muriel’s 
marriage.” 

“I’m sorry,” Elly said. “But I didn’t do it purposely. 
It just did itself. And now that it has happened there’s 
no sense deceiving ourselves, and thinking that everything 
would be miraculously straightened out if I went home. 
Oh, of course, she’d be all right for a couple of weeks, and 
so would I, but as soon as the first fright wore off she’d 
begin pestering me and I’d begin resenting it, and the 
whole thing would start all over again. Nope. I’m out 
for good. So anything you want to take up with me you’d 
better take up on that basis. Shall we be friends or 
enemies?” 

“Of course, we’ll be friends, my dear. I quite under¬ 
stand your attitude. I’m terribly sorry you feel so 



242 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


strongly on the subject that you can’t manage to wait a 
little longer. You know, you might marry”— she made 
an impatient gesture—“and then you could get away and 
make her happy, too.” 

Elly’s shoulders sagged. 

“Oh,” she said, “do I have to go over all that again! I 
don’t want to get married. I want to be alone, to belong 
to myself. For a little while, anyway. I don’t want to 
share myself with anyone in the whole world. It’s such 
a small thing to want, and so simple. Is it so unnatural 
that you simply can’t get what I mean?” 

“You’ll admit it’s not like most girls. Now, if you were 
intent upon a career, I could understand, but you evi¬ 
dently aren’t. Your career seems to be quite incidental 
to this curious idea of yours.” 

“It is,” she said eagerly, “it is, altogether. It’s only a 
means to an end. But, I’ll tell you, if you want to empha¬ 
size that part of it to mother, you can. Explain to her 
that I need a place of my own to work in. The thing she 
seems most concerned about is what her friends will say, 
and it will be easier for them to swallow if she tells them 
about my career. But I don’t want you to be under any 
misapprehension. I’m not leaving home because of my 
career. I’m not leaving home for any of the reasons that 
girls are supposed to leave home. I’m leaving for one 
very simple reason. I want to. I want to be by myself, 
to belong to myself, to be answerable to no one but 
myself. It’s all so simple and obvious; I suppose that’s 
why it’s hard for you to understand.” 

“You’re sure,” Mr. Hoffman said gingerly—“please 
don’t be angry now, but are you sure there’s no man in¬ 
volved? Your mother thought maybe there was someone 
you didn’t want to tell us about, even someone you were 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


243 


secretly married to, perhaps.” Elly’s eyes filled with 
tears. 

“Oh, it’s just no use,” she said wearily. “I always 
fool myself into thinking I can count on you. But you’re 
just like the rest. You only seem different. No, there’s 
no man. You can tell her that with perfect safety.” 

“What are your plans?” he asked, after a long pause, 
during which he seemed to have convinced himself that 
the girl was in earnest. 

“I’m staying with Eva until June. When I get grand¬ 
ma’s money I’ll find a place of my own. By the way, how 
much will it be?” 

“If you leave it where it is,” he replied, “you’ll get 
about twenty-five dollars a week.” 

“That’s fine. And it’s absolutely mine on my birthday, 
isn’t it? You can’t stop me from getting it?” He smiled 
ruefully. 

“No. Would that make a difference?” 

“Nope. Of course it’ll be easier for me, with twenty- 
five dollars a week I don’t have to work for, but I’d do it, 
anyway. Look, I have forty-five I can definitely count 
on right away. And when I leave school Mr. Bradley 
will give me more work. I’ll get along all right.” 

“Oh, have you decided to forego my allowance?” 

“Yes. I don’t want to be under obligations to you. I 
wouldn’t mind accepting the money—I know you can 
afford it. But taking it would give you a moral hold on 
me, and I don’t want that.” 

“Well,” sighed Mr. Hoffman, “all I can say is Shake¬ 
speare was right.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“ ‘It’s a wise father that knows his own child .’ 99 



244 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


5 

Eva, as usual, was right. The first month was the hard¬ 
est. A dozen times during the course of that month she 
was on the verge of going back. The first time she went 
home for dinner after her departure, was a repetition of 
that night’s happenings. Frantic pleas, agonized wailings, 
extravagant promises. Threats of suicide, too. Elly 
weakened. It wasn’t that she was moved to sympathy so 
much as that she couldn’t bear scenes, and was tempted 
to give in so the scene would stop. 

But she didn’t. Something came to her in time, and 
reminded her of how many scenes there would be forever 
after, if she went back now. And she could never leave 
again, either. There was something so anticlimatic about 
a second dramatic exit. It would lack conviction. So 
she didn’t yield. Instead, she spoke firmly, telling her 
mother that she couldn’t come at all if this was going to 
be the result. 

“I didn’t come because I was particularly anxious to, 
you know,” she said brutally, “I only came because father 
said you wanted to see me.” 

“I do. I want to see you all the time. I miss you so 
much. I can’t sleep at night. I met Celia Katz on the 
street yesterday; she looked at me so funny! I’m ashamed 
to go anywhere; I can’t look people in the face. You’re 
disgracing me.” 

There were innumerable repetitions and variations of 
this during those first few weeks. When the haranguing 
of her mother seemed in vain, and the pleading of her 
father failed, emissaries were sent to reason with her. 
Aunt Rose, the one relative she really cared for, took her 
to tea and urged her to be reasonable. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


245 


“Your attitude is so selfish,” Aunt Rose pointed out. 
“You're not only making your mother miserable, but 
you’re hurting your father as well. And Muriel will be 
back from her honeymoon in a few days. Think what all 
this will mean to her.” But Eleanor was adamant. 

“I’ve thought of all those things,” she said, “and I’m 
sorry. It’s more than selfishness, though. It’s self-preser¬ 
vation. I’m not going back.” 

Then, when Muriel got home there was a fresh on¬ 
slaught. She was shocked and Irving was furious. He 
felt that it cast a blot upon his wife’s name. 

“You can’t go through with this thing,” he told her. 
“It’s impossible for you to be so utterly inconsiderate of 
others. Think what this thing means to Muriel. Just 
starting her married life. What will she say to all the 
people who know both of you? Can’t you see the position 
you’re putting her in? Why, my parents don’t know what 
to make of it.” 

“I can see how you feel,” she told him, “but after all, 
I’m doing nothing disgraceful. You all act as though you 
think I’d left home to lead a life of shame! Muriel knows 
what it would mean for me to stay up there. It was bad 
enough while she was with me; but alone it would simply 
be intolerable. You know, don’t you?” She looked plead¬ 
ingly at Muriel. Muriel hesitated. Poor youngster, it 
was a pretty hard spot for her. Irving answered for her. 

“It makes no difference whether she understands or not. 
You are doing a very questionable thing, and neither I nor 
my wffe are going to sanction it. As long as you insist 
upon being stubborn about it you will not be welcome in 
our house.” 

“Is that right, Muriel?” Muriel, crying, said nothing. 

It was almost as bad, in the beginning, as though she 



246 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


hadn’t gained her freedom at all. She learned in those 
early weeks, that liberty wasn’t a very simple possession, 
but something very difficult, hedged about with all kinds 
of prickly things. Still, it was precious. And she wasn’t 
going to give it up. 

“Why should I?” she asked Eva. “Not one of them 
really gives a damn about me. All they can think about is 
‘what will people say?’ Like a lot of sheep. If they 
exhibited one decent instinct about the whole business, I 
might be tempted to yield. But they don’t, so I won’t. 
It’s getting pretty tiresome, though.” 

“It won’t last much longer,” Eva assured her. “When 
they realize there’s no use they’ll lay off you. You’ll 
see.” 


6 

She did see. By June her rebellion was accepted as 
a fact—painful, but immutable. The family tried to keep 
from friends and acquaintances the fact that Elly was 
actually living way from home, but they admitted with 
a sort of grudging pride that she was sharing the studio of 
another girl artist. By then Mrs. Hoffman had given 
up pleading with her to come back home to live, and 
pleaded only for her to come up for dinner more often. 

Her father and Aunt Rose were compelled to admit how 
much better she looked, how the harassed expression she 
had worn so continuously of late began to give way to 
one of peace. Even Irving decided that it would look bet¬ 
ter if the family seemed to be standing with her. Then 
nobody could think there was anything really terrible 
about it. Muriel was awfully happy at his decision; she 
loved him, but she loved Elly, too, and understood exactly 
how she felt. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


247 


On her birthday Elly signed some papers, the meaning 
of which was not particularly clear to her. All she knew 
was that now she was in possession of grandma’s money. 
With this fund and some two hundred odd dollars to her 
credit in a savings bank, she opened a checking account. 

“It’ll be easier that way,” she told Eva, “especially if 
I have to pay rent and electric bills and all that sort of 
thing. And it makes me feel much more a person.” 

“You’re really an awful baby, you know,” Eva told her. 
“But I know just how you feel.” 

They went “house hunting” one glorious, warm Sunday 
afternoon, a perfect June day. Eva had told her she 
might stay on at the apartment over the summer, as Bob¬ 
bie would be away until September, but Elly wanted the 
first full flavor of her freedom unshared, even with the 
most understanding friend. They found the place rather 
easily. It was a single large room, on the top floor of an 
old, rather sketchily remodeled house. It was a terrific 
climb. The room was awfully dirty and the floor not 
particularly good, nor the woodwork. And when you 
rented a place in the summer you never could tell about 
the heat. Those were its disadvantages. But its ad¬ 
vantages more than compensated. There was a decent 
bathroom, which in time could be made clean. And there 
was a stone fireplace. And there were two windows which 
not only faced south, but which looked out upon one of 
the few trees still growing on a city street in the eastern 
part of the United States. And the rent was sixty dollars 
a month. 



CHAPTER XV 


i 

The early weeks in the place—Eleanor never got to 
call it anything but the place, studio sounded so preten¬ 
tious—were the happiest of her life. The first violent 
disapproval of the family lightened, and her own process 
of readjustment somewhat eased by her stay with Eva, 
Elly entered her life alone with a joy that she had not 
believed possible in the world. Her happiness was so 
strong a thing that it was almost palpable. Sometimes, 
sitting in the wicker armchair, surreptitiously given her 
by Aunt Rose, with her feet before her on the drawing 
stand, she would catch herself stretching out her hand, 
foolishly, in an attempt to touch the happiness. It was 
heavy about her, she immersed herself in it as though it 
were a warm, fragrant bath. All sorts of absurd figures 
came to her mind; she couldn’t help laughing at herself. 

“I’m getting positively balmy,” she told Eva one day. 
“If this keeps up I’ll even begin to like poetry.” 

“Little barbarian! ” Eva was delighted with the result 
of the experiment. “You really look much better already. 
You’re losing that haggard expression.” 

“Why shouldn’t I? I’m so happy! So simply ecstatic. 
I wish I were a writer, so I could put down what happens 
to me every time I go into that room and realize that 
everything else in the whole world is shut outside. Or I 
wish I were a real painter. It would be bound to show in 
my work. I don’t believe these people who say that artists 
do their best work when they’re miserable. Some might, 
248 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


249 


but I’ll bet more of them can do better things when they’re 
happy.” 

Although she didn’t pay any particular attention to it, 
her own work did improve quite perceptibly. Being alone 
so much—she was jealous of her solitude, and at first she 
couldn’t bear to have anyone come to the place—she in¬ 
stinctively turned to work, and did some things which in¬ 
terested Paul Bradley deeply. 

“These are great,” he said to her one morning when 
she brought him three delicately made pen and ink 
sketches for some lingerie posters, “I had a hunch you 
had it in you. But I didn’t think it would come out so 
soon. What’s happened? Are you in love? You look as 
though you had some happy secret.” Elly blushed. Was 
it so apparent, she marveled? Well, she remembered what 
it was like to be in love, and certainly it had never made 
her so blissful. 


2 

This spirit of almost delirious joy came to an end even¬ 
tually, of course. With September and the slight redden¬ 
ing of the leaves on the tree outside her windows, her feel¬ 
ing resolved itself down to a steady, deep kind of happi¬ 
ness, the sort of thing that is supposed to come to perfectly 
mated couples after the first wild thrill of belonging to 
each other has passed. She didn’t love her solitude any 
less, but she loved it more reasonably. She was sure of it 
now, and willing to share it a little with her friends. It 
wasn’t necessary to hug it quite so close any more. 

The family was rather surprised to find that when the 
first glamor wore off, she didn’t come trotting back home 
and beg to be taken in. She’d get tired of it, Mr. Hoff¬ 
man had told his wife. She could never stand the loneli- 



250 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


ness. Wait, you’ll see, she’ll walk in some fine day, bag 
and baggage. It was just as well to let her have her taste 
of it now. Save a lot of trouble later on to some man, 
probably. 

Only she didn’t get tired of it. Mr. Hoffman didn’t un¬ 
derstand that being alone doesn’t necessarily mean being 
lonely. 

Gradually she swung back into her old course. The 
parties at Eva’s began again. The same old boys and 
girls, with occasionally one or two new ones. Hank Wells, 
still grumbling about his newspaper job, and still hanging 
tightly on to it, Dick Barclay and his pretty young wife, 
quarreling a little more bitterly than they had formerly, 
Billy Tracy and Tom Berry, Bobbie who was letting her 
yellow hair grow, because too many girls were cutting 
theirs, Bud Lane, tanner of cheek and bluer of eyes than 
ever, from days of golf and riding. Bud, who’d won an 
honorary degree when he went into the war, emerged from 
the fray a first lieutenant, and now was “doing something 
in a bank,” Elly didn’t know exactly what it was, except 
that it wasn’t behind a cage anywhere in view. Whatever 
it was, he was doing it well, evidently, and happily too. 

The first time they met again at Eva’s Elly and Bud 
were drawn together by the same attraction that had 
caught them when they first met. 

“You’re more beautiful than ever,” Bud said. “You’re 
handsomer than ever, too,” she told him, feeling a little 
foolish. Banter, she thought ruefully, was not in her line. 
That was why she had to be honest, she never could think 
of bright things to say. But in a few minutes they’d 
dropped easily back into their old relations, and when it 
came time to go home it was assumed by both that Bud 
would take her. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


251 


They picked up their friendship there where they had 
left it three years earlier. Each got from the other a 
mild exhilaration. Bud, being a volatile and articulate 
young person, found it very easy to say “I love you” on 
rather frequent occasions, and Elly, being inarticulate, 
found it difficult to answer, so she smiled and said nothing. 
However, she liked to hear him say it, and was in no way 
deluded into thinking that he actually did love her. It 
was funny, she thought, how easily it slipped from his lips. 
As easily as the kisses that came so gently, and about as 
pleasant and meaningless. 

Sometimes he grew a little restless and demanded to be 
kissed in return. 

“Don’t you like me to kiss you?” he would ask a little 
sulkily. “I don’t have to, you know.” She would tell 
him yes, and she did like him to. 

“I let you, don’t I? If I didn’t like it I wouldn’t have 
it.” 

“Well, why don’t you ever show any interest in the 
proceedings? Why don’t you kiss me once in a while?” 

“I don’t know how.” 

“How silly. You don’t want to.” 

“Same thing. If I wanted to, I guess I’d know how, 
wouldn’t I? I’ve really never kissed anybody, although 
loads of people have kissed me. I don’t know. I’m just 
not much interested, that’s all.” 

“You’re a funny girl,” Bud mused. “You’re twenty- 
one, and you seem just as unpracticed now as you did 
that night I first met you. Remember ?” 

Yes, she remembered. And she was unpracticed, still. 
A tiny pain came around her heart when the picture of 
Ted flashed suddenly across her mind. If he had lived. 



252 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


. . . Even he used to scold her, too, because she never 
would kiss him. 

“I guess,” Bud said speculatively, “I guess you’re un- 
dersexed. Or else you haven’t been awakened yet.” His 
timeworn comments elicited no smile from Eleanor. 

“I guess I am,” she answered seriously. 

Academically, she was deeply interested in the subject, 
a subject which seemed these days to be of primary con¬ 
cern to all the people she knew. At parties they always 
separated into little groups, and, somehow, no matter what 
the original topic of their conversation might be, it got 
around, eventually, to sex. The word no longer made 
Elly wince the way it had a few years earlier. She could 
say it glibly now, without thinking at all. But her inter¬ 
est was altogether an academic one. In her casual con¬ 
tacts with men, and these contacts were many enough, 
she had never once been disturbed at all. When men 
made love to her, which they did with a fair degree of 
regularity, she rather liked it. There was often a kind 
of aesthetic pleasure in it, if they did it well. But never 
was there anything disturbing in it. 

And she felt no curiosity, either. Curiosity, it appeared 
from a great many novels about the Modern Girl , was 
accountable for the decline of virginity in America. They 
wanted to know, according to the novels, which were fre¬ 
quently written by men, what it was all about. These 
novels Elly found unconvincing. She couldn’t believe that 
girls could give themselves so casually to men just be¬ 
cause they wanted to know what it was all about. They 
must be actuated by love. Or something that passed for 
love, anyway. 

All the stuff, spoken and written, about the Modern Girl 
—the Younger Generation —official titles—seemed to Elly 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


253 


altogether fictional in character. She belonged to the 
younger generation, she was a modern girl. All her friends 
were of the age, too. And of them all she couldn’t find one 
who did any of the things attributed to them. She didn’t 
know, for instance, one girl who checked her corsets at 
dances, and yet, according to novels and stories in the 
Sunday supplements that was a common practice. As a 
matter of fact, very few girls wore corsets, but those who 
did kept them on. She knew no one either, who talked in 
terms of “petting parties” and the rest of the current 
vocabularly used in the best fiction stories. Of course 
people kissed each other and made love to each other, but 
there didn’t seem to be anything new in that. Elly, puz¬ 
zling over the whole matter, finally came to the conclusion 
that the Younger Generation, as such, had been invented 
by a middle-aged woman who wrote Sunday stories for 
a New York paper, and who had seized upon that as an 
easy way of earning the money to put her two children 
through college. Elly, being altogether of the earth, never 
believed in what she couldn’t see, and she had absolutely 
no evidence of the Younger Generation. 

As for herself, she wanted only one thing, and that was 
to be let alone. To do her work, to see her friends, to 
avoid quarrels, to shut herself in her attic room and lock 
the whole world out. To be free. That was all she 
wanted. Sex, well she was awfully glad she wasn’t both¬ 
ered with anything like that, because that would most 
certainly interfere with being free. 

3 

Life grew increasingly simple for her. Of course, there 
were still times when the family got together, and, with a 
concerted effort, tried to win her back home. But it was 



254 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


really awfully easy to resist them. She hit upon a plan 
that got the best results for her with the least effort. She 
assumed an attitude of stolidity and slight stupidity. 
When they began their attacks she would take a position 
and keep it throughout the entire discussion. Her an¬ 
swer to every question would be the same. Her defense 
consisted of a constant reiteration of her determination to 
continue as she was. She never got excited, and she never 
bothered to explain. Her manner was gentle and patient, 
as though she were trying to teach something to a dog or 
a baby. The family found it quite disheartening, and 
their attempts came with less and less frequency. By 
November they had given it up altogether, and appeared 
resigned to the inevitable. Their efforts now were con¬ 
centrated upon getting her to visit them more often. Mrs. 
Hoffman would try to tempt her by calling up and an¬ 
nouncing that she would have certain favorite dishes for 
dinner—wouldn’t Elly come up? She found it all very 
amusing, and took a rather malicious delight in teasing 
about it. 

By Christmas she was so far forgiven that her mother 
gave her a set of new curtains and hangings for the place, 
and suggested to Mr. Hoffman that he give her a daybed, 
so she could get rid of the rather rickety couch she’d been 
using. Even Muriel and Irving gave her something for 
the room—two low book shelves that fitted into the wall 
just below the windows and were cushioned on top to 
make window seats. They were built under the special 
direction of Mrs. Hoffman, who, in fact, supervised the 
whole proceedings, and who spent many hours in the 
place. 

“I’ll have to be careful,” Elly told Eva Gerrard one 
day, shortly before Christmas. “If they forgive me too 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


255 


completely it’ll be almost as bad as living uptown. How 
hard you have to work just to belong to yourself. If you 
relax just a tiny bit you lose an awful lot of ground.” 

Pretty soon, though, the attention of her parents, of 
her mother, in particular, was diverted, as it had been 
before, by Muriel. Shortly after Christmas it became 
known, sifting out in a furtive sort of way, that Muriel 
was in what her mother called an interesting condition. 

“Interesting to whom?” Elly asked when her mother 
told her, and then added hastily, “oh, I’m sorry. I just 
said that to be smart. I’m awfully interested myself, 
honestly.” 

So once again Muriel came unwittingly to the rescue, 
and Elly was allowed to follow her own devices without 
much concern on the part of her mother. 

Her own devices were commonplace enough. She led 
a perfectly regular, quite unexciting existence. Mornings 
found her in Paul Bradley’s office, turning out routine 
stuff. Afternoons she would usually spend in the place, 
working on a poster idea she was developing. It was a 
simple enough thing, but nobody apparently had thought 
of trying it. She worked with silhouettes, only, instead of 
the usual arrangement, she cut the figures out of white 
and applied them on a black background. The result was 
startling and amazingly effective. The white figures 
somehow gave much more the feeling of life than the ordi¬ 
nary black silhouettes did. 

Her evenings were more or less alike, too. Dinner at 
the little coffee house with the gang, occasional dressed-up 
parties with Bud Lane, dates once a week or thereabouts 
with Hank Wells, who always managed to graft theater 
seats through the dramatic editor of The Star. Elly went 
to the theater a great deal, particularly to those things 



256 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


where costumes and settings were of real importance. 
She had never given up her desire to design for the the¬ 
ater, and was only waiting for the time when Paul Brad¬ 
ley should think she was good enough to go ahead. Mean¬ 
while, she spent three or four nights a week at the theater, 
and absorbed everything she could find in the way of line 
and color. And she kept on working on her white silhou¬ 
ettes until one day she finished a set of them that seemed 
good enough to show Mr. Bradley. 

“Do you think I can do anything with these?” she asked 
him. 

“Great guns, kid,” he replied, “if you work it right 
you have a gold mine in that idea. For posters they’re 
great, and you could work out some good revue sets, too. 
Have you shown this stuff to anyone else?” 

“No. I wanted you to see it first.” 

“Well, take it around to Princeley. He’ll fall for it, 
sure. And if you once get started doing work for the 
Kalbfleisch outfit, you’re made. Everyone else’ll come 
tearing after you.” Pleased, but not counting too heavily 
on his prediction, Elly got Morgan Princeley on the tele¬ 
phone. 

“Certainly,” he said. “Come right around. I’ve al¬ 
ways got time to see a pretty, clever girl like you.” Half 
an hour later she was in the Kalbfleisch reception room. 
He kept her waiting for twenty minutes or more after 
she had sent her name in. 

“No casting today, you know,” the guardian of the 
gate told her superciliously. Elly explained that she 
wasn’t looking for a part, and immediately the boy’s atti¬ 
tude became subtly more respectful. He grew communi¬ 
cative, too, when he learned that she wasn’t an actress, or 
a potential actress, and was in the midst of a lengthy dis- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


257 


sertation upon the pestiferousness of young women in 
search of work on the stage, when a hard-faced, very 
yellow blonde, tripped down the hall from Princeley’s 
office. It wasn’t the same one Elly had seen on her first 
visit, but it was one exactly like her. There seemed, she 
learned later, to be hundreds of hard-faced, very yellow 
blondes, all cut out of the same pattern, forever tripping 
in and out of Morgan Princeley’s office. 

The guardian of the gate smiled at Elly, as one regular 
guy to another. 

“You kin go in now,” he said. 

Morgan Princeley was signing a letter when she came 
in. He read the letter through before he looked up. 

“Hello,” said Eleanor. “I want to show you some new 
pictures Mr. Bradley thought you’d be interested in.” 
She wasn’t afraid now, to get right to the point. The 
months she’d been working and living alone had given her 
a new confidence. 

“Getting very businesslike, aren’t you, baby?” Princeley 
said. “Well, that’s all right with me. Trot ’em out.” He 
went through the set of silhouettes several times, studying 
them intently, without saying a word. Elly looked at him, 
trying to read his face. At length he looked up. 

“Very interesting,” he said. “I shouldn’t be at all sur¬ 
prise if we could use some of this stuff. I’ll have to give 
’em to Blackburn, our art director; he has the real author¬ 
ity on all this end of the business. He’s out now, can you 
leave ’em here? It’ll be perfectly all right. We confine 
our gyping to actors.” He grinned. “You’re not afraid 
of papa, are you, pretty baby? Got a little kiss for him, 
just to show you trust him? No? Well, have it your 
own way, it’s all the same to me.” He looked down at the 



258 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


papers on his desk, picked out an unsigned letter, and be¬ 
gan scratching his pen across its surface. 

“Leave the door open when you go out,” he said. 

4 

Blackburn, the Kalbfleisch art director, did like the 
silhouettes, it developed within the week, and a few days 
later Elly was put to work making a set of six posters for 
the new revue, Frocks and Blondes, which Kalbfleisch 
was putting into his newly redecorated Metropole Theater. 
The posters were to be mounted in niches along the fagade 
of the house, and would occupy an extraordinarily promi¬ 
nent position. She was to get three hundred dollars for 
the set. 

“That’s great luck for a beginner,” Morgan Princeley 
told her. “You just stick with us and you’ll be all right. 
Blackburn thinks you’re great, and he’ll give you other 
work to do right along.” Now every evening and as many 
afternoons as possible found Elly huddled in a seat near 
the back of the Metropole orchestra. She was to do two 
studies of Diane Duval, the French star of the revue, two 
of the comedians, and two of the chorus. 

One afternoon while she was sitting in the theater, mak¬ 
ing a preliminary sketch of Mile. Duval, Morgan Prince- 
ley came up to her with a tall, lanky youth whom he intro¬ 
duced as Nat Harris, the press agent of the show. 

“Glad to know you, Miss Hoffman,” he said. “I was 
just saying to Morgan that it would be a good stunt to 
get you photographed in a smock working on one of your 
sketches. I could land that in the rotos. They always 
fall for these artistic pictures. And Weiss, around the 
corner, has one of the best prop smocks you ever saw. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


259 


Looks like the spirit of Greenwich Village. How about it? 
All right with you?” 

“Certainly,” Elly replied, “if Mr. Princeley is satisfied.” 

“Yeh,” Harris assured her, “he don’t care. And the 
papers are beginning to squawk already ’cause I’ve been 
shooting ’em so much stuff on Duval.” 

Three weeks later Mrs. Hoffman was carrying around 
with her a much rumpled pair of rotogravure clippings, 
one each from The Herald and The World, showing Elly 
in the smock, which was opened carelessly at the throat, 
working on a sketch of Diane Duval. “Miss Eleanor 
Hoffman,” the captions said in effect, “beautiful young 
New York artist, who was discovered by Morgan Prince- 
ley, major domo of the Kalbfleisch offices, at work on one 
of the posters she is making for the forthcoming revue, 
Frocks and Blondes. Miss Hoffman has been offered a 
place in the chorus of the new show, but declared she’d 
rather remain on the other side of the footlights.” 

For the first time in weeks Eleanor displaced Muriel in 
their mother’s mind. After all, practically any woman 
can have a baby, but comparatively few women get their 
pictures into the Sunday picture sections, as the discov¬ 
eries of famous theatrical producers. Mrs. Hoffman 
beamed with pride and delight when acquaintances men¬ 
tioned having seen the pictures, and in case anyone hadn’t, 
she brought them out at once. 

“She was always the clever one of the family,” Mrs. 
Hoffman would say to her interested friends. “And de¬ 
termined to be an artist. You never saw such will power 
in your life. She got it from me. . . . 

“Oh, certainly she has a studio. Down town near the 
theatrical district. She has to be near her work. And, 
anyway, you know how artists can’t work at home, with 



260 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


the family around all the time. They have to be left 
alone. . . . 

“Yes, she stays down there most of the time. She can’t 
bear traveling on the trains. She never was very strong, 
and she has to save herself for her work. . . . 

“No, indeed, I’m not nervous. I trust her implicitly. 
When she first took the place I worried a little, but that’s 
the price you pay for having talented children, I guess. 
You must come with me some time to see the studio. It’s 
very attractive.” 

It was amazing, really, how many people saw those 
pictures. Boys she hadn’t heard from in years called her 
up at the place, getting the number from her mother. 
Chester Adelstein, who’d discreetly withdrawn when she 
first left home, wrote a note asking whether she’d have 
dinner with him. And girls who had looked the other way 
when she’d passed them on Fifth Avenue, popped up from 
a great variety of places, all as eager as they could be to 
see her again, to take her to tea or have her for a dinner 
party. 

“Isn’t it the most absurd thing you ever heard of?” she 
asked Eva. “These people just fled from me as though I 
had the plague, because I had the guts to do something I 
really wanted to do. And now because I get a little silly 
publicity they all come trooping back. They seem to 
think I’m a good person to know now. You know, I’d 
understand it if I’d done something big, or become really 
important. But a little inconsequential thing like this! 
It’s depressing.” 

She managed to elude most of them, but a feeling of 
curiosity possessed her about Chester, and she wrote back 
saying that she would like very much to have dinner with 
him some time. Meanwhile, she stuck close to her work, 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


261 


her existence bounded by the place and the Metropole 
Theater. The pictures in the rotogravure sections had 
other results besides bringing to life her old acquaintances 
and giving her mother something to talk about. Three 
afternoon papers and a feature syndicate asked to inter¬ 
view her, and before long she had joined the ranks of 
“Miss Blank, when seen in her charming little apartment 
on East Fifty-first Street, said that she believed emphati¬ 
cally that all girls should have a career. . . .” 

And one day Hank Wells called up to say that the 
editor of the Sunday magazine of The Star would like to 
make a full page reproduction of some of her silhouettes. 
Reproductions of the Frocks and Blondes posters ap¬ 
peared in several of the Sunday dramatic sections the 
week the show opened. And just as Paul Bradley had 
predicted, several other theatrical producers offered her 
work to do. Suddenly, within six weeks after her visit 
to Morgan Princeley’s office with the silhouettes, she was 
launched. 


5 

She went to talk it over with Bradley, to ask his advice, 

“What do you think I should do?” she said. “I’m 
really all up in the air. It’s all happened so suddenly, I 
can’t believe it. I’ll always do whatever work you have 
for me, because you started me, and I’ll never forget it. 
But should I accept this other stuff, or just tie myself up 
with the Kalbfleisch office? Morgan Princeley wants me 
to come to work on a straight salary, not to work for any 
other producer.” 

“What’s he willing to pay you?” 

“Seventy-five. He admits I could make more the other 
way, but he says it’ll be worth the difference to me, be- 



262 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


cause he’ll make me famous within a year. Those are his 
words, not mine.” 

“Sounds like him. Well, to tell you the truth, he’s prob¬ 
ably right. My advice is to go with ’em for a year, on 
condition that you can do outside work if you have the 
time, so long as it’s not for other theatrical firms. I’ll be 
sorry to lose you, but you go with my blessings. And I’ll 
take you on your word about doing some stuff for me now 
and then. Just one more thing before you go. For your 
own sake, please remember that you’ve been damn lucky. 
Your work is good, but you know as well as I do that 
there are dozens of artists just as good who are starving 
to death, and some who are better and can’t get a hearing. 
You’re a clever kid, you know what you want, and you 
have the distinct advantages of having good looks and a 
personality that makes people want to help you. The 
breaks have all been with you, and for the love of God 
don’t queer it by getting a swelled head.” Elly smiled. 

“I’ll try not to,” she said. “It probably won’t be easy, 
but I’ll make an awful stab at it. I do realize I’m awfully 
lucky, but just to be on the safe side, if you see me getting 
swelled headed, let me know.” 

Following Paul Bradley’s advice, Eleanor went to work 
for the Kalbfleisch organization at a salary of seventy-five 
dollars a week, with the understanding that she could take 
on any outside work that did not interfere with her duties 
there. She was kept very busy, as the Kalbfleisch produc¬ 
tions were numerous. Besides making posters she got up 
several ideas for twenty-four sheets, which were eventually 
displayed on billboards all over town with her name in 
large black letters down in the right-hand corner. She 
adhered strictly to Bradley’s advice about signing all her 
work, and Morgan Princeley gave her full play in this 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


263 


direction. He was determined to make a reputation for 
her and gave young Harris instructions to use her in the 
publicity as often as possible. 

When she tried to find out why he took such an interest 
in her he said it was because he admired her attitude to¬ 
ward life. 

“I tried to get you,” he said, “when you first came to 
see me. Not hard, of course, I don’t believe in that. But 
I did try. And while I would have been very glad to have 
had you for a sweetheart, I was just as glad when you an¬ 
swered me the way you did. And I hope you’ll always 
answer everybody that way. You wanted to belong to 
yourself, you said. Well, baby, keep on belonging to 
yourself. You’re the only one you can really trust. And 
if you should ever feel yourself slipping, come to papa. 
He’ll help you get back your balance.” 



CHAPTER XVI 


i 

Muriel’s baby was born on the twelfth of June, two 
days after Elly’s twenty-second birthday. The family 
had hoped it would arrive on the tenth. It would have 
been cute. But perhaps it was just as well, after all, Mrs. 
Hoffman said later, because if God forbid anything should 
ever happen to one of them it would spoil everything for 
the other. Mrs. Hoffman never used the word die. When¬ 
ever she had occasion to speak of the possibility of death 
she used the same locution, “if God forbid anything should 
happen.” In fact, she seemed unable to call anything 
that related to death by its right name. When on one 
occasion she wanted her husband to alter a clause in his 
will she asked him stumblingly for several evenings, there¬ 
after, whether he had attended to “that matter.” She 
seemed to be afraid that to use the words outright would 
be to bring them to pass. 

The baby was a boy. That was one nice thing about 
Muriel. She could be absolutely depended upon to do the 
right thing. No fuss, no trouble, a nice easy birth, free 
from complications, and a son. 

It was rather curious, but the advent of the baby 
brought Elly closer to her family than she had been since 
before she went to live alone. She adored him from the 
very first. She found that she didn’t agree at all with 
the theory that babies are unattractive in their infancy. 
To her Junior was a fascinating thing from the moment 
she first saw him, at the age of three hours. She, who 
had never had time for anything concerning the family, 
264 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


265 


could be found at Muriel’s two or three times a week in 
the afternoon, utterly absorbed in the baby. She con¬ 
stantly discovered what she insisted were signs of tre¬ 
mendous intelligence, although the nurse, a very scientific 
person, assured her that it was quite impossible for a child 
to exhibit any signs of intelligence before it reached the 
age of three months. 

Mrs. Hoffman regarded Eleanor’s attitude toward the 
baby as a hopeful sign. After all, Mrs. Hoffman decided, 
the maternal instinct was awfully strong, and maybe now 
that Elly was so crazy about the baby, she’d be more 
likely to get rid of her foolish notions and settle down. 
It was lovely that she was so successful, of course, but she 
would feel happier if she could see both her daughters 
comfortably settled. One afternoon when she met Elly 
at Muriel’s house, she hinted at what was in her mind. 
Elly groaned. 

“Oh, Lord, mother,” she said plaintively, “will I have 
to stop even this? Of course I’m mad about Junior, but 
it’s because he’s such a cute and interesting little human 
toy, and not because I have any passionate yearnings for 
motherhood. I thought you were convinced by this time 
that I know what I’m doing. And I’m not going to marry, 
either, not Chester Adelstein, if you still have that in the 
back of your head, or anyone else. So for heaven’s sake 
give up the idea. It won’t get you anywhere, and it’ll 
only make things difficult between us if you keep harping 
on it.” 

2 

During the summer Elly experienced a recurrence of 
the sharp delight she had first felt in the place. She was 
one of the rare persons who are pleasantly affected by 
heat, and the midsummer days, instead of unfitting her for 



266 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


work, in some strange way exhilarated her, and she turned 
out some really interesting costume designs for the newest 
Kalbfleisch musical comedy. She was utterly happy. 
The life in and around the theater was exactly what she 
wanted, her idea of a dream come true. Just to be there, 
to listen to the plans for the new season, to chatter idly 
with the people who dawdled in and out of the Kalbfleisch 
offices, to read the script of a new play and hear a discus¬ 
sion of who would be the best person to get for the star 
part, to be consulted occasionally by the art director on 
a point of scenic technicality or a matter of lighting, that 
was heaven. She loved her job, she loved the strange, 
half mad people who were connected with her job, she 
loved her mode of living. Life at that moment was as 
near to perfection as life very well could be, she felt. 

Often she would drop into Morgan Princeley’s office 
on an errand, and almost invariably she would remain 
half an hour or more, talking to him. He liked to make 
her talk, and never tired of starting her off on her theory 
of spiritual integrity. There had grown up between them, 
incidentally, a strong, firm friendship; his attitude was a 
composition of the comradely and the paternal, with a 
little of the Pygmalion mixed in. He was intent upon 
making a personage out of her, and was looking forward 
to the day when he could point with pride to his handi¬ 
work. On her side she was genuinely devoted to him, 
grateful, admiring, and always a tiny bit amused at the 
plainly visible scaffolding of his vanity. 

Occasionally she went to parties at his studio in a Sev¬ 
enth Avenue apartment house. His parties, like his char¬ 
acter, were much more wicked in reputation than in fact. 
They were gay enough parties, but nothing extraordinary 
ever happened at them. Morgan managed to gather 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


267 


around him a pretty interesting assortment of people. He 
was proud of the fact that he could bring together in his 
studio the extremes of gay New York life, and Elly was 
likely to see at one party an eminent playwright, the 
flapper daughter of an old Knickerbocker family, a vaude¬ 
ville dancer but lately off the burlesque wheels, a soprano 
from the Metropolitan Opera House, a popular jazz band 
leader and a bootlegger queen. His taste in people was as 
catholic as his taste in house furnishings. Elly gasped 
with horror at the walls of his living room, which were 
papered in black and white stripes four inches wide, with 
robust looking cabbage roses climbing up them from floor 
to ceiling. Later she gasped with wonder and delight at 
an exquisite bowl of Chinese glaze, a thousand years old, 
enshrined as his most cherished possession. It was im¬ 
possible to reconcile the two things. She couldn’t under¬ 
stand how the man who loved that Chinese bowl could 
bear the horrific wall paper. Or else she couldn’t under¬ 
stand how the man who chose the horrific wall paper 
could be interested in the Chinese bowl. But he was de¬ 
voted to both. When she asked him about it once he said 
it must be because he had a compartmental mind, and the 
wall paper satisfied one compartment, while the bowl 
satisfied another. He was the same way with his friends. 
He admired the queen of the bootleggers and the Fifth 
Avenue flapper with equal fervor, and he delighted in 
bringing them together and observing the effect each had 
upon the other. They blended amazingly well, at least at 
his parties, and the chance to attend one was considered 
a great opportunity. 

3 

It was at one of these parties, in August, that Elly met 
Stephen Sayre. Of course she knew a lot about him. He 



268 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


had long since attained the distinction of being the only 
theatrical press agent for whose copy dramatic editors 
fought. And it was only an inexplicable accident that she 
hadn’t met him long before. He’d been in Princeley’s 
office probably a hundred times since she’d gone to work 
there. Somehow they’d never run into each other. And 
it never occurred to Morgan that they didn’t know each 
other. 

Elly was sitting on a low stool in a corner of the room, 
engaged in a lively discussion with Blackburn, the art 
director, about the third act set for the new Hapgood 
farce, when she began to notice Stephen Sayre. He’d 
been in the room probably an hour, but it wasn’t until 
then that he detached himself from the background and 
took definite form in her eyes. She wondered who he was. 
There was something vaguely familiar about him, although 
she was certain she’d never seen him before. Something 
in the line of his head, perhaps, or the way he waved his 
hands when he talked, seemed to give her a feeling that he 
was someone she knew very well. It was puzzling. 

“Who’s that man over there?” she asked, “the one 
talking to Sally Hedges? No, not the handsome one, the 
one with the glasses.” Blackburn looked at her in sur¬ 
prise. 

“Don’t you know him?” 

“No, should I?” 

“Yeh. That’s Steve Sayre.” 

“Oh, is it? I had no idea he looked like that. I thought 
he was much older. I love his stuff, don’t you?” 

“Yop, it’s great. Want to meet him?” 

“Why, yes,” Elly said, “I would like to. Only not now. 
I mean don’t go over and obviously drag him away from 
Sally.” They continued their argument about the third 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


269 


act set, but Elly found her attention straying now and 
then across the room to where Sayre was sprawled on a 
couch, talking with very evident interest to Sally Hedges. 
Sally was the assistant book editor of The Sphere , a bril¬ 
liant and caustic young woman, who was a living refuta¬ 
tion of the tradition that clever women are always homely, 
and that beautiful women are always stupid. Sally Hedges 
had a wit as keen as a razor blade and a cupid’s bow 
mouth. She had an M. A. from Radcliffe and a modishly 
shingled head of pure golden hair. Her prose style and 
her marcel wave were equally flawless, and her large won¬ 
dering gray eyes saw everything. The hands that pounded 
out merciless book reviews on a battered typewriter in 
The Sphere office were small and white. In short, Sally 
Hedges was a knockout. And she took her fun where 
she found it. People were beginning to speculate just 
how soon it would be before Dorothy Valentine, the sweet 
little wife of Porter Valentine, The Sphere’s literary critic, 
would begin to see what was going on between Porter and 
his young assistant. 

Judging by the air of absorption that emanated from 
Sally and Stephen Sayre, it looked as though Dorothy 
Valentine would soon have nothing to worry about. But 
Elly remembered, as she watched them, that Sally always 
wore that look of absorption when she talked to a man. 
It was part of her technique. As a matter of fact, the 
subject that they were discussing with such absorption 
was what kind of typewriter to get to take the place of 
Sally’s battered one. Stephen was being very emphatic 
about his favorite make, but across the room Elly couldn’t 
hear what they were saying. Again, though, she was 
struck by the suggestion in him of someone she knew. It 
was so fleeting, she could scarcely catch it. And she found 



270 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


it increasingly irritating. She must find out what it was. 

“Oh, I say,” she said to Blackburn, “Sally’s had him 
long enough. Go over and get him now. I want to ask 
him something.” 

He rose, walked over to the couch where Sayre and 
Sally were seated, and after a few desultory words, re¬ 
turned to the corner with Stephen. 

“Sayre,” he said by way of introduction, “Miss Hoff¬ 
man, my assistant, says you’ve never met, and that seems 
to me a condition that should be remedied.” 

“Eleanor Hoffman?” he asked, as though the name 
were not new to him. She nodded. “I know your work. 
Think it’s darn good, too.” 

“Well, then, we certainly should know each other,” 
Eleanor said, “ ’cause I think your work is a lot more than 
darn good. That parody last Sunday was wonderful, 
really. You’re almost the first thing I read in The Sphere 
on Sundays.” 

“Do you like it? I always feel as if I were getting 
away with murder—a press agent running a column in a 
Sunday paper! And they pay me for it.” 

“Why not?” asked Blackburn. “They ought to pay 
you for your press yarns, too. Why, you’ve made a great 
figure out of that fat little boss of yours. I wish we had 
you in our publicity department.” Kalbfleisch’s wasn’t 
the only theatrical office that yearned to get Stephen 
Sayre away from Mike Strauss. For Sayre had suc¬ 
ceeded, after five years of brilliant work, in establishing 
the fat, good-natured little Russian Jew he worked for, as 
a humorous tradition equalled by nobody in New York. 
The comments on any theatrical situation attributed to 
Mike Strauss by Stephen Sayre were always given the 
best space in the Sunday dramatic sections, and were the 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


271 


only press agent stories read by anybody but the press 
agents who wrote them. 

“You know, it’s funny,” Elly said, “but all evening 
I’ve been trying to figure out who it is that you make me 
think of. At first I thought I must have seen you some¬ 
where, but now I’m sure it isn’t that. And it’s not the 
usual resemblance. You don’t look like anybody I’ve 
ever known, but you suggest someone. And it’s someone 
I’ve known quite well, too.” 

“Oh, I’m just one of those people who’s always remind¬ 
ing someone of someone. At first it was an awful blow to 
my pride, but I’m used to it now. Dance?” They moved 
onto the rather cramped space, and began to dance. 
Funny. When he put his arm around her she got a dis¬ 
tinct impression that it had happened before, that it was 
something she was quite used to. Suddenly he ducked to 
avoid a collision with an oncoming couple. Somehow that 
gave her the key. It was all made clear to her in a frac¬ 
tion of a second. It was Ted that he reminded her of. 
Not that he looked like Ted. They were utterly different 
as to coloring and facial architecture. Ted had been dark, 
with straight black hair, and his face had been a distinct 
oval. This man’s hair was light brown—nearly blond— 
and it curled. His complexion was quite fair, and he had 
hollow cheeks under extremely high cheek bones. But 
there was something. The way he moved, probably. A 
sudden twist of the head. His dancing position and the 
way he held her were really awfully much the same. 
Those emphatic gestures of his hands. It was quite amaz¬ 
ing. 

“I’ve got it,” she said to him, looking up. “I know who 
it is you are like.” 

“Who?” idly, “anyone I know?” 



272 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Oh, no,” she said, “just a boy I used to know.” She 
smiled faintly to herself as she said the words. It had 
never entirely ceased to surprise her that she could be 
so casual about Ted. There was something awfully queer 
about dancing around with this man she’d only just met 
and feeling as though she’d known him always. And it 
wasn’t a thing she could tell him. He wouldn’t know what 
she was talking about, he’d just think she was handing 
him an awfully old line. So she said no more about it. 
Anyway, after she’d placed the resemblance it seemed to 
disappear. 

“Let’s sit down again,” she said. “It’s too uncom¬ 
fortable to dance.” They went back to the corner where 
Elly had been sitting before. She sat on the stool and he 
lounged on the floor at her feet. 

“Oh, say,” he said, “Valentine thinks I ought to have 
some kind of standing headpiece on the column, and I’m 
awfully dumb about anything like that. If you should 
happen to get any kind of idea that you think would be 
good, will you tell me?” 

“Maybe I can make a design for you. I’ll try.” 

“Would you, really? I was kind of wishing you’d say 
that, only I didn’t quite have the nerve to ask. I really do 
like your stuff.” 

“And I really do like yours.” 

“It looks as though we were off to a pretty good start,” 
Steve said. “Let’s have a drink on it.” They went to 
the punch bowl and drank a silent toast. They danced 
again. Then they went back to the corner to try and 
figure out an idea for the headpiece. Eleanor felt very 
gay, exhilarated. She talked more than was usual, and 
she had an idea she was talking rather well. 

They discovered some mutual likes. He knew what 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


273 


she meant when she said she’d rather be Ann Pennington 
than Eleanora Duse. And she knew just how he felt 
when he said that the most beautiful thing in the world 
was a lower case f when Fred Cooper drew it. 

“It’s like that Giotto circle,” he told her excitedly, “per¬ 
fection encompassed in a single stroke of the pencil. I 
swear I could stand transfixed in front of that f for hours 
at a time.” 

“Yes,” she agreed, “and it’s like a certain shade of 
blue. You know that faded blue in the Virgin’s dress. I 
have some China beads that color that I wouldn’t ex¬ 
change for a string of pearls. Do you know the color I 
mean?” He did. He liked it, too. 

“You know,” she giggled, “I once met a boy who was 
the most perfect looking thing I’ve ever seen. I got an 
awful kick out of him—just visual. And I tried to ex¬ 
plain it to him by telling him he reminded me of the blue 
in the Virgin’s dress. He was awfully mad.” 

They hated some of the same things, too. Bananas, 
for instance, which they agreed were zero in food. And 
Faust, which they thought was terrible, no matter who 
sang it. And the performance of a new bleached blonde 
soubrette, about whom all the public and nearly all the 
critics at the moment were raving. It was really quite 
amazing. They were almost awed by the discovery. 

“It’s pretty good to like the same things,” he said 
blithely, “but when you find someone who hates the same 
things you do, it’s incomparable. This ought to be good.” 

“It probably will be.” 

It seemed perfectly natural, when it came time to leave, 
that he should take her home. 



CHAPTER XVII 


i 

Eleanor called him up a few days later to tell him 
that the design for his column headpiece was ready. 

“Oh, say/’ he said, “that’s great of you. I didn’t really 
think you’d do it. I wanted to call you up, but I was 
afraid if I did you’d think I was hinting. I don’t suppose 
you could have dinner with me tonight, could you? I’ve 
just signed a contract with The Passing Show to write a 
piece a month for them for the next year, and I want to 
celebrate.” Yes, she could have dinner with him, Elly 
said, and would like to very much. 

He came to the place to call for her at six o’clock. 

“You didn’t mind that I said yes right away, did you?” 
she asked him. “I simply can’t be coy.” 

“Hell, no,” he said emphatically, “I’m tickled to death 
you did it. It shows that you have faith in my intelli¬ 
gence.” 

After a few minutes they went out, taking a bus down 
to the Brevoort for dinner. Steve lived on Twelfth Street, 
and knew by heart all the Village eating places. The red 
ink joints, he told Elly were all right when you were broke, 
but on the whole he preferred good food- and service to 
any amount of picturesqueness. 

“There’s an awful lot of hokum down here,” he said. 
“I swear I don’t know why I live in this neighborhood.” 

“When I first planned to leave home,” she told him, “of 
course it was the Village I thought of. Then when it really 
happened I purposely avoided it, because I didn’t want to 
274 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


275 


be labeled. You know the dumb ideas people get. Green¬ 
wich Village still means free love and nothing else to the 
majority of people. But there is something about this 
part of town that really gets me, especially in the warm 
weather. The air itself is different. When you pass the 
south side of Fourteenth Street you seem to move into a 
different city. And the Square really is lovely.” 

“Even the wop side?” 

“Even that. By the way,” she said, “this was going to 
be a celebration of your Passing Show contract, and we 
haven’t said a word about it. What are you going to 
write for them, and how did you ever get it? That’s an 
awfully hard magazine to break into, isn’t it?” 

“Well,” he said, “they got to reading The Spheroid, 
and thought I could do better if I had more space, so 
they wrote me a letter and asked me to come around. I 
went, and we talked things over, and now I have to write 
fifteen hundred words a month for the next year. And 
I’m not restricted. I can write anything I want.” 

“It’s really wonderful. Are’nt you thrilled?” 

“Yes, I am, although I try to act as though it bored 
me half to death. I don’t mind telling you, though. 
You’re a comfortable sort of person.” Elly smiled, a 
little mock rueful smile. He caught it. 

“You don’t mind, do you, that I said that? It’s really 
the highest tribute I can pay you. I don’t mean that 
you’re just like another fellow, or anything like that. Be¬ 
lieve me, I’m perfectly well aware that you’re a girl. But 
I get the feeling that you know just what I mean when 
I say something, and that I don’t have to put on an act 
for your benefit.” 

“You don’t. And I’m awfully glad you do feel com¬ 
fortable with me. I want to be able to say anything I 



276 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


like to you, too. I’ve always had a lot of trouble with 
boys because they insisted upon reading hidden meanings 
into the things I said, or interpreting me. I’m awfully 
blunt and tactless, and not a bit subtle, and people aren’t 
used to that, I guess. It’s funny, I learned a long time 
ago that if you want to deceive a man the simplest way 
is to tell him the exact truth. Nine times out of ten he’ll 
reject it flatly in his own mind, and decide that you really 
mean the exact opposite of what you’re saying. Are girls 
like that, too?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t known a great many girls, 
and I really can’t generalize. But most that I have known 
have exhibited one characteristic in common. The minute 
I’d show any signs of interest they’d begin to think that 
they owned me. It got my goat. I can’t stand being 
owned.” 

“I know how you feel. I can’t stand it, either. I left 
home because I couldn’t stand being owned. But you 
shouldn’t be too harsh about the girls. They can’t help it. 
As a matter of fact, I don’t think they are aware of the 
attitude. I think it’s some sort of subconscious instinct 
at work. I can’t explain it very well, but it’s sort of like 
this:—if a girl acts as though she owns a man he might 
be convinced after a while that she does. Sort of hooked 
before he knows about it. I think that’s the way about 
half the women in the world get their husbands. And you 
know, even now, with all their emancipation, most women 
want more than anything else to get married.” 

“I suppose so. Don’t you?” 

“No. Not now I don’t, anyway. I don’t mean that I 
don’t want to get married now, I mean that the way I 
feel now I don’t want to get married ever. It took so 
much struggling and fighting to get where I am now that 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


277 


I feel as though nothing on earth could make me change 
my circumstances.” 

“You sound just like a man. That’s precisely the point 
of view of the confirmed bachelor. I’ve never heard a 
woman express it before.” 

“Do you believe I mean it?” 

“Yes. I can’t see any reason why you should want to 
marry, either. There’s very little in it for a girl like 
you.” 

“You’re wonderful,” she said enthusiastically. “You’re 
absolutely the first man I’ve ever said that to who didn’t 
tell me that I was either lying to him or lying to myself. 
It seems impossible to make them understand that com¬ 
plete freedom of thought and action might be just as 
desirable to a woman as it is to a man. And you can’t 
have that if you tie up your life with anybody else, no 
matter who the person is, or how understanding.” 

“Of course,” he said, “it’s been pretty simple for you 
so far. But suppose you should really fall for somebody? 
You know, an awful lot of confirmed bachelors have given 
up their precious liberty because they couldn’t resist a 
girl. Usually they’ve regretted it. Do you think you’d 
be strong enough to hold out against love?” 

“I’ve thought of that, too,” Elly replied, “and I hon¬ 
estly don’t know. But I don’t think I’ll ever really love 
anybody. I’m too self-centered. I did once, when I was 
quite a kid. I was crazy about a boy, the one who first 
put rebellious ideas into my head. We were going to get 
married when we got old enough, but he was killed in the 
war. I have always interpreted that as a sort of symbol. 
If I’d married him I would have lost my freedom to him. 
And another thing. I learned something quite terrible 
when he died, but it was also something that gave me a 



278 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


lot of power. I was really crazy about that boy. I hon¬ 
estly loved him. But I got over losing him in less than a 
month. The really sharp pain, I mean. At first I thought 
I’d have to die, too, but after a while I discovered myself 
taking an interest in things again. I hated myself for it; 
it was an awful discovery to make, but think what a 
weapon it’ll be in the future.” Steve looked at her specu¬ 
latively. 

“You’re an amazing person,” he said. “It would be 
awfully interesting to test your theories.” Ellly laughed. 

“Why don’t you?” 

“Is that a dare?” 

“No. I don’t think there’d be much fun in that for 
either of us. But I do think we can get on awfully well 
together. You’ll be safe in the knowledge that you can 
say anything you want to me, and display as much in¬ 
terest as you care to, without having me pounce upon you 
with ‘this is so sudden! ’ And I’ll be safe in the knowledge 
that I can say anything that comes into my head, without 
having you misunderstand me or think I mean just the 
opposite of what I’m saying. How I love a man who 
doesn’t need footnotes to conversation.” 

“Well,” said Steve, “as I told you up at Morgan’s the 
other night, this ought to be good.” 

“And as I told you the other night up at Morgan’s, it 
probably will be. In fact, I’m sure it will. What time is 
it?” 

“Nearly ten. Gee, I didn’t realize we’d been sitting 
here so long. What’ll we do now?” 

“Come up to my place for a little while. You have to 
get the design, anyway. It’s up there.” 

They walked down to the starting place of the bus, 
where they had to stand on line about fifteen minutes 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


279 


before they could get seats on top. When they finally 
got aboard one, Steve paused at one of the rear seats, 
but Elly led him farther forward. 

“Come along,” she said, “leave that seat for someone 
who’ll appreciate it.” Steve chuckled. “Funny kid,” 
he said, patting her arm. 

Up at the place they sat till after midnight and talked. 

“I love now,” Elly said. “I think probably it’s the 
most comfortable time, even though it’s not the most 
poetical, in all history. For the individual, of course. 
Just think how much we know about each other already. 
Why five years ago, even, we’d have taken six months 
to get acquainted, and now we’ve done it in six hours. 
Isn’t it great that we can skip all the awkward prelimi¬ 
naries and get right into the amusing part?” 

“That’s not altogether because it’s now,” Steve said. 
“It’s partly because it’s you. You are an amazing little 
thing, you know. I’ve really never met anybody who 
gave me such a sense of ease as you. There seems to be 
nothing I couldn’t say to you, and I’m sure there’s noth¬ 
ing you couldn’t say to me.” 

“No,” she laughed, “there isn’t. And I’m going to 
begin right now. I have a tremendous amount of work 
to do in the morning, and I think it would be a very 
good idea to get some sleep.” 

“Righto,” said Steve. “I’ll go. And I don’t even 
mind that.” 

“Don’t forget your drawing,” she said, giving it to 
him, as he lazily got up from his chair. 

“Oh, thanks, you are a brick to do it for me.” 

“Good night. It’s been lots of fun.” 

“Good night. Shall we do it again, soon?” 

“By all means. Soon and often.” 



280 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


“Nice child.” He put his hand on the doorknob, as if 
to go. Then he turned back, smiling, and took her 
casually but definitely in his arms. “I just wanted to 
make it plain,” he said, fin case you weren’t sure, that 
this is not to be a Platonic friendship.” With that he 
kissed her quite thoroughly. 

“Oh, no,” Elly said, after she had regained her breath. 
“I wouldn’t have it Platonic for the world. Especially 
after that. No, one’s quite enough to sell me the idea,” 
she said, wriggling out of his arms as he bent to kiss her 
the second time. “Good night, my non-Platonic friend.” 

How perfectly nice, thought Elly, after he had gone. 
There was probably nothing in the world more pleasant 
that the beginnings of a crush. The locution of her 
high school days still seemed the most satisfactory one. 
She didn’t like to call it an affair, even in her own mind. 
That gave it too much importance. No, a crush was 
exactly right. Playing at love was much more fun than 
love itself. All the gayety with none of the responsi¬ 
bilities and pain. 

It occurred to her suddenly from some inner source 
that she was afraid. Afraid of anything that savored of 
responsibility to another human being. Having worked 
and fought for nearly ten years to reach a point where 
she would be responsible only to herself, she had de¬ 
veloped what now, it was vaguely suggested to her from 
within her own mind, amounted to a positive horror of 
becoming involved with anybody else. It was more 
than a disinclination, she realized, it was a definite fear. 
The thought flashed with lightning swiftness in and out 
of her mind. What she said to herself, actually, was, 
“Heavens, I’m getting positively hyped on this stuff.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


281 


2 

As they had predicted, it got to be very good. Their 
relationship, following the course it had begun that night, 
grew swiftly into something completely satisfactory for 
both. It was a light thing, and joyous. They under¬ 
stood each other, as companions they were perfectly 
suited, and yet there was sufficient warmth and challenge 
in it to make it a kind of game. They played at love, 
although the word never passed between them. 

The early days were delightful. They had all the 
adventures that two young things, playing at love in New 
York, invariably have. They rode on the Staten Island 
ferry, eating popcorn and laughing uproariously at noth¬ 
ing. They discovered the delights of driving up Fifth 
Avenue and through Central Park in a dilapidated han¬ 
som cab. They walked east from Fifth Avenue on Four¬ 
teenth Street, exploring the alien and entertaining land 
that lies there, and standing transfixed before the lurid 
lightographs outside the ten-cent movie theaters that infest 
Union Square. Occasionally they dined in the little back¬ 
yard places of the Village, and sat afterward in Wash¬ 
ington Square Park. 

Eleanor was perfectly happy. She had from Steve the 
same sort of reliable companionship that she’d had long 
ago from Ted, only there had been pain then, and now 
there wasn’t. This was all gay. 

They went to the theater together, and they planned 
to hear some concerts later when the season began. Elly 
confessed that she’d always been more or less anesthetic 
to music, but Steve said that was just because she’d 
never had the right influences. 

“You’re too hard, anyway,” he said one night when 



282 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


they were loafing at her place. “In the emotions, I 
mean. Your mind is flexible enough, but your emotions 
are awfully unyielding. That’s the result of this fixed 
idea life you’ve been leading all these years. You’ve got 
what you went after now, why don’t you unbend a little, 
and take something in through your emotions? You 
come to the Philadelphia Symphony with me, and bathe 
in that glory for a while, and maybe you’ll get to be a 
little more human.” 

“Am I as bad as all that?” she laughed. 

“Oh, that’s not the point,” he said, “it’s really for your 
own sake. You never seem to be relaxed. You’re afraid 
to let yourself go. Sometimes when I watch you I get 
the feeling that you have some tremendous dynamo 
always working at top speed inside you, a dynamo you’re 
afraid of, and that some day if you relax your vigilance 
it’ll explode.” 

“Well,” she pondered, “perhaps you’re right, but I 
don’t think so. And it’s not that I’m afraid to let my¬ 
self go. I am let go. I am relaxed, but there’s nothing 
there. As a matter of fact, I don’t seem to have the 
capacity for feeling very much. I like music, when it’s 
sweet music, and falls gently upon my ears, but it doesn’t 
excite me. I’ve often heard people talking about how 
Caruso’s voice just wracked and tore them, but it never 
did that to me. I’d go to hear him and put myself in a 
receptive mood, but nothing like that would happen. I’m 
not so sure I’d care about it, at that. It must be awfully 
uncomfortable to have such easily stirred emotions. 
^You’re open to so much suffering.” 

“You are a hard little beast,” he said, “but you’re 
cheating yourself whether you believe it or not. You’re 
trying to make yourself immune to life, which, of course, 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


283 


has its advantages, but it also has its penalties, as you’ll 
probably find out some day. I’d hate like hell to be in 
love with you!” 

“Well, don’t be,” she said flippantly. 

“Don’t worry,” he answered, a trifle grimly, “I won’t. 
But I wouldn’t mind being the guy who finally breaks you 
down. Oh, someone will, all right, and what a lot of 
excitement there’ll be then. I don’t care what you think, 
there’s an awful lot pent up inside you.” 

“Oooh, look out.” 

“What’s the matter?” 

“Well, that sounds as though the next remark would 
be, ‘you’re a smouldering volcano,’ or words to that effect, 
and then you and I would have to part forever.” 

“Be reassured, it wasn’t going to be. You can be aw¬ 
fully irritating when you want to be.” She came over 
to his chair and took his hand in both of hers. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, the flippancy gone from her 
voice. “I didn’t mean to be.” She bent over him, still 
holding his hand, and kissed him gently on the lips. He 
drew her down to him, and held her close. 

“You can be awfully sweet, too,” he said. His hands 
strayed over her hair, loosening the pins until it tumbled 
down. 

“I love your hair,” he said, winding it about his 
fingers. “How it is you never bobbed it? I’m glad you 
didn’t. It’s much prettier this way, but I’m surprised 
you didn’t cut it off, just as a symbol of your liberation.” 

“That’s just why I didn’t,” she said. “I didn’t want 
any symbols. I didn’t want the thing to get mixed up 
in my own mind, and I didn’t want my family or anyone 
else to get the wrong impression. I purposely avoided as 
many outward signs of freedom, or things that are ac- 



284 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


cep ted as outward signs as I possibly could. Being free 
was a sacred sort of thing to me. Please don’t laugh. 
I suppose it’s impossible for me to get to you exactly 
what I mean, but as a child I was so much a piece of 
property, and I wanted so passionately to belong to my¬ 
self, that the thing became an absolute obsession. You 
can’t understand it, because you’re not a Jew. 

“It’s a part of the race, this fierce kind of parental 
ownership, and it’s referred to as ‘that beautiful family 
life.’ Lots of people fall for it, but I made up my mind 
when I was quite little that it wouldn’t get me. You 
know, it’s quite parallel to the tradition about French 
women. They always say French girls are virtual pris¬ 
oners until they marry. Well, in Jewish families, espe¬ 
cially among the kind I come from, you’re a prisoner to 
your parents, not only until you marry, but forever after, 
and the only satisfaction you can get is to have children 
of your own, and make prisoners of them. I remember 
once, when I was about six years old, my mother slapped 
my face, and when I cried and said some day I’d be big 
enough to defend myself, and then she couldn’t hit me any 
more, she told me she’d be my boss as long as she lived, 
and if got to be fifty years old and did something she 
didn’t like, she’d slap my face then. That’s what chil¬ 
dren are for. Just something to own, and work off your 
feeling of power on.” 

“Yes, I understand,” he said, “but I think you’re mis¬ 
taken in applying it to Jews exclusively. There are 
just as many Gentiles who are like that. You’re less 
charitable to the Jews than most Gentiles, do you know 
it?” 

“Well,” she said, “that’s another thing you can’t under¬ 
stand, not being a Jew yourself. If you ever begin to 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


285 


investigate you’ll discover that the most rabid Jew haters 
are Jews themselves, because they have to suffer for the 
actions of all Jews. Don’t fool yourself for one minute 
that it isn’t a handicap to be a Jew. I’m not saying that 
because I’ve ever felt it particularly myself. I haven’t, 
but I know it exists. There is a feeling, and there 
always will be, until intermarriage straightens the whole 
thing out, and that’ll be a long way off.” 

“Do you think it will become general?” 

“In time, yes. It’s my strong belief that it is the 
predestined fate of the race. And every intermarriage 
I’ve witnessed has not only been successful itself, but it 
has produced the finest results. Children of mixed par¬ 
entage—I’ve known enough of them to reach a pretty 
definite conclusion in my own mind—seem to get the 
best qualities of the Jew and the Gentile. I’m convinced 
it’s the solution of the problem. And don’t think that 
there isn’t a problem.” Steve smiled, as he handed her 
the hairpins he had taken out of her hair. 

“All that outburst just because I asked you why you 
hadn’t bobbed your hair,” he said. “You’re very cute 
when you get excited. I must try it again some time.” 

“It’s very wearing,” she said, relaxing against him. 
‘You’re so restful, Stevie,” she sighed. “I really love to 
have you hold me. It’s so nice.” 

“I’m glad you like it.” 

“I wonder why people get so exercised over petting,” 
she said later, between kisses. “It’s a grand institution.” 



CHAPTER XVIII 


i 

By fall their presence together was accepted every¬ 
where. When Morgan Princeley told Elly about a party, 
he would ask her to let Steve know. And Elly took him 
around to meet Eva, who had spent the summer abroad, 
and who had heard of Stephen only through the mail. 
Eva’s shrewd, young-old eyes appraised him, and she 
gave her approval. 

“He’s good stuff,” she told Elly, “do you think you’ll 
marry him?” Elly was shocked and humorously furious. 

“Aren’t you silly,” she said. “Of course not. In the 
first place he doesn’t want to marry me. He’s not a 
marrying man. And in the second place, I don’t want 
to marry him. You’re just as bad as a ladies’ aid society.” 

“Well, I don’t know,” mused Eva. “The way he 
looks at you . . . But I guess you ought to know.” 

“Take my word for it, I do. There’s nothing to it. 
Just a kind of crush. We do get along awfully well, 
and it’s lots of fun, but not in the least serious.” 

“Want to bring him to Bobby’s party?” Elly said she 
would. Bobby had succumbed at last to the repeated 
urgings of a childhood beau in Washington, and was to 
be married in January. Her continued presence in New 
York was countenanced by her family only because she 
gave the pretext of trousseau buying, and as a matter of 
fact, she spent almost as much time in Washington now 
as she did in New York. The gang was planning a big 
farewell party for Thanksgiving night. On the first of 
286 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


287 


December she was going home to stay until her wedding. 

“Oh, yes. I think the gang will like him, don’t you?” 

“I can’t see any reason why not.” 

2 

The first time they ever had anything like a quarrel 
was after Bobby’s party. Elly hadn’t seen Bud Lane in 
several months, and without thinking particularly about 
it, she spent a large part of the evening with him. Steve 
seemed to be enjoying himself. The people were familiar 
with his work, and gave him rather more than the usual 
attention accorded a newcomer. Elly, seing that he was 
well established among her friends, slipped into a quiet 
corner with Bud, and left Steve to his own devices. 

He was silent on the way home, with the kind of 
silence that speaks eloquently of resentment. Elly 
sensed his irritation and made an effort to overcome it, 
by speaking lightly about nothing in particular. 

“It was a good party, wasn’t it?” she asked. 

“Urn.” 

“Isn’t Bobby a glorious girl?” 

“She’s all right.” 

“Don’t you think she’s beautiful?” No answer. They 
walked along in silence again. Steve’s face was turned 
resolutely forward, his chin very high, his eyes at once 
hard and hurt. At Elly’s door, which they reached 
without another word, she gave him the key. He opened 
the door, handed the key back to her, and said in a 
strained voice: 

“Guess I’ll run along. I have a lot to do in the 
morning.” 

“Steve.” There was coaxing in her voice. “You 
can’t. Come up for just a few minutes.” She took his 



288 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


hand and dragged him gently inside. Half angrily he 
accompanied her up the stairs. Inside the room he stood 
stiffly near the door until she pushed him into a chair, and 
poised herself lightly on his knees. 

“Now,” she said gayly, “what’s it all about? Have I 
done something?” 

“Oh, no,” stiffly. He did not touch her; just let her 
sit there bolt upright. She took his hand and kissed it. 
He jerked it away. 

“Steve.” The gayety went out of her voice and a note 
of pleading came in. “Steve, don’t be this way, please. 
Tell me what’s the matter.” 

“What’s the use of playing innocent about it,” he said 
stiffly, “you know perfectly well what’s the matter.” 

“I don’t, really.” 

“Well, if you really want to know, I think you were 
disgusting to-night. Taking me to a party full of strange 
people and dumping me in their midst, and then sneaking 
off in a corner with that fellow Lane. Hell, it’s none of 
my business who you’re in love with, but it seems to me 
you might at least have managed your affairs with a. 
little more delicacy.” 

“Steve!” Astonishment, amusement and horror strug¬ 
gled for expression in her voice. 

“Steve,” he mocked her tone. “There’s not need of 
doing that. It won’t get by. I know you feel guilty. 
I could tell by the way you acted on the way home.” 

“I don’t know what to say, really. You seemed to be 
having such a good time. Everybody was around you, 
and listening to you, I didn’t think I’d be neglecting you 
just by talking to Bud for a while. I hadn’t seen him 
in months. And as for being in love with him, that’s 
ridiculous and you know it.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


289 


“Well, you certainly acted as though you were. And 
so did he.” She made no answer to this. It was so 
utterly absurd there could be no answer. This was a 
new, strange person she was with. A hurt and sulky 
little boy, who’d never before given any sign of his ex¬ 
istence. The discovery distressed her considerably, but 
it did something else, too. It made her feel awfully old, 
as though she were his mother, and he’d been dread¬ 
fully hurt. There wasn’t any use trying to argue him out 
of the mood. She could sense that. Like a little boy, he 
must be petted out of it. She rose and turned off the 
center light, leaving only the little dim desk lamp burn¬ 
ing. When she came back she sank to her knees on the 
floor, resting her head on his knees, and holding his two 
hands in hers. For a few minutes she sat that way, 
saying nothing. She could feel the tiniest relaxation in 
his mind and body. He was just a little less taut, his 
determination to be unapproachable had wavered just the 
slightest bit. She got up from the floor, then, and slipped 
gently back to her former position. This time he did 
not resist her so utterly. When she snuggled closely to 
him and put his arms around her, he left them there, 
although he did not respond of his own accord. Gradu¬ 
ally, however, the softness of her body against his, the 
warmth of the room and the intangible atmosphere of 
peace that always pervaded it, communicated themselves 
to him. The tautness left his body, the grim set of his 
mouth and chin relaxed, and at length with a sigh he 
drew her closer to him and kissed her. It was a strange 
kiss, coming from a man. It had surrender in it, more 
than anything else, and a return to peace. For a long 
time they sat that way, saying nothing, immersed in 



290 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


beatific warmth. They had been away from each other, 
and now they were together again. 

Some instinct, subtle and sure, told her it would be 
safe to speak again. 

“All right now?” she asked him, kissing his ear. 

“Yes, dear. I was a fool. It won’t happen again. I 
don’t know now how it happened. Only, somehow, I 
couldn’t bear seeing you so thoroughly wrapped up in 
your conversation with that fellow. It wasn’t that I was 
jealous. I guess it must just be my masculine pride.” 

“I know. But it’s all right now. Are you happy 
again?” 

“Umm. Are you?” 

“Yes.” Silence once more, broken only by occasional 
inarticulate murmurs from Steve and long, peaceful sighs 
from Elly. How like a cat she was. Happy as long as 
some caressing hand stroked her gently. 

“Oh,” she said drowsily after a long time, “this is so 
nice! Do you know, Steve, I almost love you.” 

“Almost?” he repeated. “Only almost? I do love 
you. I think I found it out to-night. And some day,” 
bending to kiss the hollow in her throat, “I’m going to kiss 
you all over. Every inch of you.” She smiled sleepily 
and shook her head. 

“No,” she said, “I wouldn’t care so much for that.” 

“We’ll see.” 

“All right, dear, but let’s not see now. I’m so com¬ 
fortable and so sleepy.” 

“Wouldn’t it be nice if I could hold you in my arms 
all night?” 

“Ye-es, I guess so, but I think thinking about it would 
probably be nicer than doing it.” He stared at her 
gloomily. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


291 


“God,” he said, “you’re a funny girl. I can’t make up 
my mind whether you’re afraid to let yourself feel any¬ 
thing, or whether you’re simply incapable of it. Can’t 
you ever put away your thinking apparatus? You’re 
really missing a tremendous lot, Elly. Just feeling is won¬ 
derful sometimes.” 

“I imagine it must be.” She said it a little wistfully, 
but he did not catch that note. To him there was ap¬ 
parent only an attitude of superiority. She was boasting 
of her immunity. Well, he’d show her some time. She 
was human, after all. 

3 

Nothing was quite the same after that night. The old 
comradeship remained, and the laughter, but it was as if 
the actual mention of the word love between them had 
wrought some subtle change—brought some new element 
into their relationship, and taken away something that 
they had formerly had. There was a self-consciousness, 
scarcely perceptible, but present, nevertheless, and the 
perfect peace of their hours together was ever so slightly 
marred. 

While Steve did not precisely live up to his determina¬ 
tion to “show her,” the feeling did somehow get into his 
entire attitude, and his caresses thereafter were tinctured 
faintly with bitterness. It was baffling and infuriating to 
him that this girl, so soft and warm, so made for love, 
should lie passively in his arms, accepting his kisses as 
though they were the kisses of a child. It wasn’t that 
she was unyielding actually. He’d never known anyone 
who fell more naturally into the attitude of love. Only 
underneath the softness and the physical flexibility was a 
streak of the most unbending steel. She simply couldn’t 
give. She wanted, awfully, she told him when they spoke 



292 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


of it, as they often did these days, but she simply couldn’t. 
The habit of years was too strong. 

“I’m like a bone that’s been incorrectly set,” she told 
him, ruefully, “and I guess I’ll just have to grow wrong 
for the rest of my life.” 

“Sometimes,” he told her, “when a bone’s been set 
wrong they break it all over again and reset it correctly.” 

“Yes, I know,” she told him, “but that takes patience, 
an awful lot of patience.” 

“Well, I haven’t shown any impatience yet, have I?” 
he asked. 

“Oh, Stevie,” she asked, pleadingly, “can’t we stop 
this? It’s spoiling everything for us. We started out 
to have so much fun together, and now we’re reduced to 
this. We do nothing but argue every time we’re alone 
a few minutes.” 

Then they would resolutely stop their discussion and 
make a conscious and definite attempt to recapture the 
mood of careless fooling that had marked their early 
days together. Sometimes they would get it, but more 
often they would fail, and end the evening in a gloomy 
fog, bristling with attitudes. 

A dozen times Eleanor made up her mind that she 
would put an end to the whole thing. It didn’t fit in 
with her plans at all, she decided. When the annoy¬ 
ance involved in a situation got to the point where it 
outweighed the pleasure, that was the time to put a period 
to it. She had made up her mind a long time ago that her 
life must not be complicated, that her relations with 
other people must always be such that she could cut them 
off abruptly, if necessary, without pain to herself. That 
freedom she had struggled so long for must be main¬ 
tained at all costs. 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


293 


The only thing was, it didn’t prove quite that easy. 
Steve had grown to be an awfully important part of her 
life, almost without her realizing it. Deliberately tear¬ 
ing him out of it was an impossibly hard thing to do, as 
she discovered when she tried it. After an unusually irri¬ 
tating evening in the place, during which the almost 
material peace that hung about the room had been shat¬ 
tered to sharp, hard bits, by their quarreling, she had 
brought herself to the point of making the suggestion. 

“Steve,” she said, her voice trembling a little. “This is 
silly, and we’ve got to stop it. We’re not happy together 
any more. Life is just a series of quarrels. We are 
acting almost as though we were married. What do you 
say about calling it off? I’m awfully fond of you and I 
know you’re awfully fond of me, but we seem to have 
reached an impasse. I can’t let go of my mind and 
immerse myself in you even though I want to terribly, 
and you seem to have lost sight of everything else. 
You’re trying to do to me now exactly the same thing that 
my mother tried to do when I was a child, and in the end 
I had to separate from my mother. I think you and I 
had better separate now, too. How about it?” He was 
grave but perfectly matter-of-fact. And he didn’t argue 
the matter at all. 

“I guess you’re right. There’s no point to this sort of 
thing. Let’s try it for a while, anyway. Only promise 
me, if you find you want to change back, you won’t be 
proud. You know I love you, Elly, and I think you 
love me, only you’re afraid to admit it to yourself. 
Maybe if you get away from me for a while you’ll be able 
to.” They kissed and said good-by, quite casually, and 
not at all as if they were putting an end to a living 
thing. 



294 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


As a matter of fact they both knew then that they 
weren’t putting an end to it, although Elly wouldn’t have 
admitted it for the world. It would be easy, she told 
herself. Life had been peaceful and gay before he came 
into it. A day or two of readjustment, and it would be 
that way again. She read herself to sleep. 

She found herself saying his name at the exact instant 
of her return to consciousness in the morning. That was 
rather strange, because it had never happened before. 
It was only because of the new condition, she explained 
to herself. He’d soon get out of her mind. She went 
to the office. At eleven o’clock the phone rang. He usu¬ 
ally called her at that time. Her heart leaped painfully 
as she picked up the receiver. It was a million years 
before the voice came over. The voice was her mother’s. 

“Hello, stranger,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “I haven’t 
heard from you all week. When are you coming up for 
dinner?” They set a date, exchanged a little gossip and 
rang off. She was surprised to find that she was trem¬ 
bling. Had she really expected him to call when she had 
told him not to? She couldn’t help laughing a little at 
herself. Of course, this was all because she was unused 
to it. In a day or two she’d become accustomed to it all, 
and life would go on as it always had. That was as it 
should be. She tried to think of things to do that wouM 
take her mind off it. A date with Chester Adelstein. 
She’d been curious to see him ever since she’d heard from 
him several months ago. But then Steve had come along 
and she hadn’t bothered. 

She called him at his law office. Mr. Adelstein, junior, 
was in court, she was told, but would be back at four 
o’clock. Should he call? Yes, she said, he should. 
She stayed in the office all afternoon so she’d be sure to 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


295 


get the call. Of course, he couldn’t call before if he was 
in court, but perhaps he’d got the message if he called up 
his office during the day. Anyway, she stayed in all after¬ 
noon. Each time the phone rang she went through the 
same torment. By four o’clock she was tense and 
feverish. There was a lump in her throat, and her jaws 
ached, from the unconscious gritting of her teeth. It 
was all vaguely familiar to her. She had the sense of 
having done it before. After a while it began to filter 
through her consciousness how much this was like the 
time she had been in love with Ted and hadn’t known it. 
Once realized, she dismissed it from her mind. Just a 
silly notion. She was always trying to fit things into 
patterns. Only it wouldn’t stay dismissed. It kept 
coming back, like a gadfly, to sting her mind. Her 
thoughts were always like that. She had no control over 
them at all. 

The telephone burst in upon this unsatisfactory self- 
communion. It was Chester, ponderous as ever. 

“How do you do,” he said. “It was charming of you 
to telephone me. How have you been all these months? 
Years, as a matter of fact.” 

“Pretty busy,” she said, “but things are beginning to 
let up a bit now, and something happened to-day that 
made me think of you. So I took a chance and called 
you up. Could you manage to get away and take me 
to dinner to-night?” 

“Well, this is very short notice, of course, and I’d had a 
sort of engagement”—he always tried to make it hard, 
Elly remembered with a giggle—“but I realize how busy 
you are, and I’ll try to break it. Can I call you back 
in fifteen minutes.” 

He called back to say that he’d broken the engagement, 



296 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


which Elly was convinced had never existed, and they 
arranged to meet at the place at six o’clock. He was 
there promptly, puffing slightly after the stairs. He had 
grown quite heavy and his blond good looks, it was plain, 
would soon be lost in fat. 

“Well,” he said, clapping his hands together, “it’s good 
to see you. You’re looking fine. I thought you might 
like these,” and he handed her a florist’s box, which 
opened, revealed a magnificent, if slightly too large, cor¬ 
sage of orchids. There was never any doubt about 
Chester’s gifts. 

“Oh, they’re wonderful,” she said, pinning them on. 
“And just right with my dress.” 

“Orchids are always right,” said Chester. “Where 
shall we dine? And what shall we do afterwards?” 

“I have a couple of things to do around the Metro- 
pole,” she said, “and I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind 
going there with me. You can watch the show from the 
wings, and talk to the people if you like. Do you mind?” 

“That will be delightful,” Chester said. “I like to go 
behind the scenes. It’s so interesting. I know a little 
—er—chorus girl in The Foibles and sometimes I wait for 
her there. Well,” clapping his hands again in the char¬ 
acteristic gesture, “tell me all about yourself. You’re 
getting to be quite a famous person, with your picture in 
the Sunday papers and all that sort of thing. I always 
knew you could do it.” 

She discovered, with dismay, that she had done the 
wrong thing. This date with Chester wasn’t helping a 
bit. All through the heavy and expensive dinner at the 
heavy and expensive restaurant Chester was talking 
about himself and she was thinking about Steve. It was 
awful. She wanted to shriek at him to be still, so that 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


297 


she could think about Steve without being disturbed. But 
after all, she had suggested the date, and it was up to her 
to be as decent as possible. She said she had to be 
at the theater rather early, and thus was able to hurry him 
through dinner. 

Somehow they got through and over to the theater. 
After planting him in a fairly comfortable spot back- 
stage and introducing him to a couple of girls, she 
disappeared, and was gone for an hour. 

“Sorry to have deserted you,” she said, “but it couldn’t 
be helped.” 

“I’m having a delightful time,” he assured her. There 
was nothing to keep her at the theater now, so they left, 
and it was too early to call it an evening. She couldn’t 
bear the idea of bringing him back to the place and 
enduring several hours more of heavy conversation, so 
she grasped eagerly at his suggestion that they go danc¬ 
ing. It wasn’t so bad, either. He was an excellent 
dancer and for a little while she managed to release her¬ 
self a little in the music and the subdued lights and the 
rhythm of the dance. But not for long. Soon the sting¬ 
ing gadfly of her thoughts came back to buzz maddeningly 
around her mind. She must get away from him. 
Abruptly she asked him to take her home. 

“I’m awfully tired,” she said suddenly. “And I re¬ 
member you never liked to stay out very late.” After 
an interminable while the check was paid and they left. 
At the door to her house she made it plain that she did 
not wish him to come up. 

“Good night,” she said, “it’s been nice seeing you 
again. Thanks awfully for the flowers . . . and for 
breaking the date.” She recalled that he liked to be 
appreciated. And, as she’d done so little else for him 



298 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


after dragging him out with her, she felt she owed 
him at least that. Bewildered by the suddenness of her 
leavetaking, and not a little displeased, he left her. She 
flew upstairs. There would be peace up there in the 
attic. That had never failed her. 

But it did. The peace that had invariably closed in 
around her when she came into her little domain, had 
vanished, just as though it had never existed. The room 
might have been any room. She felt at that moment, 
almost as though she’d never gone away from the house 
uptown. Little angry, confused thoughts were swarming 
all over the place, like hornets. That was it, hornets 
and gadflies. Her hateful thoughts. Steve. She 
wanted him. But she didn’t want him. She needed him. 
But it was only his presence she needed, his mind and 
his gayety. She didn’t need his body. Yes, she did too. 
But she didn’t need him the way he wanted her to need 
him. She needed him as an adjunct to herself, but a 
separate adjunct. She couldn’t flow into him, into his 
mind and body, and become immersed in him, the way 
he wanted her to. Oh, why did it have to be so mixed 
up! She couldn’t sleep. She picked up a book —The 
Three Black Pennys —Steve had given it to her. Herges- 
heimer, he said, sensed beauty and brought it before his 
readers as nobody writing in America could, Steve said, 
and Elly had agreed. Of all his books The Three Black 
Pennys was the one she loved the best. She had not read 
it for some time, but its beauty was still upon her. 
Maybe it would drive away the buzzing gadflies. 

She read. It was beautiful enough and powerful 
enough to sink her mind into. Gradually she felt less 
tense as she became absorbed in the story of the lovely 
Ludowicka and Howat, the black Penny. Ludowicka 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


299 


was the one woman, in fiction, acclaimed fascinating by 
her creator, whose fascination was convincing to Elly. 
Joseph Hergesheimer not only told you that Ludowicka 
was seductive, he made her seductive. She read on: 

Behind a blood red screen of sumach Howat again 
kissed Ludowicka. Her arms tightened about his neck; 
she raised her face to him with an abandon that blinded 
him to the world about, and his entire being was drawn 
in an agony of desire to his lips. She sank limply into 
his rigid embrace , a warm sensuous burden with parted 
lips. 

Beautiful. That was the way to love. To drown your 
mind in a sea of feeling. That was what Steve wanted 
her to do. And she couldn’t do it. She would like to, 
all right. It must be wonderful to lose yourself in some¬ 
body that way. But if you couldn’t? Did that mean 
you must cut yourself off forever from the person? It 
wasn’t fair. She flung the book away from her. There 
was no use deceiving herself. She wanted Steve more 
than she didn’t want him, quarrels or not. And she 
wasn’t going to be proud. She’d call him in the morn¬ 
ing. No. She’d call him now. She rang the number 
and waited feverishly, but there was no answer. She 
couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t read. Just lying there in 
bed was torment, so she got up and started to work on 
a new poster. That helped a little. All the warring 
forces in her let themselves out in a perfect fury of 
energy. She worked for two hours, and then came to a 
sudden, dead stop, used up. Her head and her body felt 
absolutely hollow. She stumbled into bed and fell almost 
at once into an exhausted sleep. 



CHAPTER XIX 


i 

They had a gay party to celebrate. There was no self- 
consciousnes about the reunion, either. In the morning 
Elly had been able to call him quite calmly, and his 
response had been equally matter-of-fact. 

“Will you have a date with me tonight?” she had 
asked, simply. And he had said yes. The two terrible 
days were blotted out. Their party was altogether a: 
success, bringing them nearer to the spirit of last year 
than anything they’d had in a long time. In a burst of 
extravagance Steve ordered champagne and their conse¬ 
quent hilarity bridged whatever gap of awkwardness they 
might otherwise have felt. Gayly they rode uptown. 

Peace pervaded the little room again. Wordlessly she 
went into his outstretched arms, and the peace deepened. 

“Do you love me, Elly?” 

“Yes, I do,” she said. A pause. “I must,” she added, 
emphatically, as though she were trying to convince her¬ 
self. 

“Kiss me, then, as though you did.” Dutifully she 
kissed him. There was tenderness in it, even love. But 
there was no abandonment. She tried to give herself in 
that kiss. She wanted to. But she could not. Some¬ 
thing more powerful than her will to give stopped her. 
If she could only make her mind stop ticking. It was 
going, tick-tock, just like a little clock. If she could 
drown out that sound of her mind ticking, then maybe 
she could abandon herself to the kiss. It was like in- 
300 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


301 


somnia, she thought. You wanted to go to sleep. You 
more than wanted to, you had to. You thought you’d die 
if you didn’t go to sleep. Yet you stayed awake. 

“I can’t do anything,” she said. “I love you, Stevie. 
I need you near me. But I can’t pour myself out. I’ve 
got to stay inside myself. It isn’t that I want to—I 
can’t help it. You’ll have to teach me. You know 
what you said about the broken bone being reset? 
Well, that’s what I need. I’ve worked so long to iso¬ 
late myself that I don’t know how to be any other way. 
Will you help me?” 

“I’ll try. I ought to be able to love you out of your 
isolation, if I can’t do anything else. But really, dear, 
I can’t understand how you can remain so perfectly calm 
when I’m caressing you. Don’t you feel anything? At 
first I thought perhaps you were schooling yourself to 
show no emotion, but I’ve come to realize that it’s no 
act. It must be some deeply imbedded inhibition.” 

“I suppose that’s what you could call it. Only in¬ 
hibitions are supposed to be things you don’t under¬ 
stand, and I do understand what makes me like this. It’s 
very simple, and I’ve explained it to you a dozen times. 
Oh, Stevie, I’m tired of discussing it and us. I want 
to stop analyzing and picking everything apart. I want 
to feel, but I don’t know how. You’ll have to show 
me the way. Don’t talk to me any more. Love me.” 

It was no use. The sentinel of her mind simply refused 
to go off duty. It made no difference that she relaxed 
her body, that she commanded herself to give way to the 
emotional excitement that seemed to come so easily and 
naturally from him. The little thoughts clicked inevi¬ 
tably on. It was maddening. She tried not to let him 
know, but in the end, he went, baffled and hurt. 




302 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


The reunion hadn’t been such a great success, after all. 
For a little while it had been all right, but here they 
were, she realized as she undressed slowly and prepared 
for bed, right back where they’d been when they decided 
to quit. She was quite thoroughly miserable. There 
was really only one thing in the world she wanted—peace 
—and it was plain to see she would have none of that 
until this thing was settled. Before she’d got into it 
she would have thought it simple to solve the problem. 
If a thing distressed you, you stopped it. Just as simple 
as that. But always before it had been something very 
easy to be definite about. It had always been some¬ 
thing she wanted posed against something she didn’t 
want. But this was different. This wasn’t a case of 
“either or.” She couldn’t just say “I’ll give him up,” 
and go ahead. She’d tried that, and it hadn’t worked. 
She hated herself. She wished she’d never met him. 
Characteristically, her chief emotion was one of resent¬ 
ment against the circumstances that had broken into her 
peace and freedom. And she could see weeks, months, 
even, of this conflict stretching ahead of her. 

2 

It was Fate playing into his hands, Steve concluded, 
when Mike Strauss decided to send him to Paris to get 
some advance publicity on the Pierrot Revue , which he 
was importing the following spring. Morris Gest had 
cleaned up on the Chauve Souris and the Moscow Art 
Theater that way—why shouldn’t he do the same? 
Steve was to join the troupe in Paris, stay with it there, 
accompany it to London, where it had a midwinter engage¬ 
ment, and then conduct it to New York. That was 
Strauss’s plan. Steve, however, had a slightly different 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


303 


one, he confided to Elly on the night he told her about 
the trip. 

‘Tm a little fed up on this job,” he said. “I’d like to 
lay off it for a while—six months or so. I want to do 
some real writing, anyway, and I’ll never do it while I’m 
on the job. It’s so easy to kid myself that I’m working 
too hard. Now this is my plan. I’ll talk Strauss into 
giving me a leave of absence for six months, beginning in 
April. I’ll work on the Pierrot thing until then, deposit 
’em safely on the boat, and then take a vacation. Six 
months, with nothing to do but loaf and write.” 

“That sounds wonderful,” Elly said. “Are you sure 
you can get away with it? I’ll miss you.” 

“Oh no, you won’t,” Steve smiled. ‘You’ll come with 
me.” 

“Oh,” faintly. “When did you decide that?” 

“Just now. No, actually, I decided it when Strauss 
first talked about sending me over, only then I didn’t 
altogether realize it. But, really, Elly, it seems to me 
to be the answer to a lot of things. I love you. You say 
you love me. I’m convinced that the reason we’ve been 
having such a bad time of it these past few months is 
that our situation is wrong. It’s all very well to talk 
about companionship between a man and a woman, and 
I have no doubt that it can exist under certain circum¬ 
stances. But this is not a Platonic friendship. I love 
you, and I want you. This business of loving you a little 
bit, and then stopping short is intolerable and I can’t 
go on with it. It’s unnatural, and it accounts for the 
rasped nerves and the squabbling. I’ve tried to be 
patient, because I know how you feel. I haven’t talked 
about it much, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t felt it. 
And, another thing, even though you probably won’t be- 



304 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


lieve me, it’s bad for you, too. You’ll see, once we really 
belong to each other, the whole thing’ll be different. All 
these plaguing things will be gone—we’ll be properly 
adjusted to each other. I know we can be tremendously 
happy. We can get married quietly then sail. Think 
of it, dear, a whole year in France. And London. 
You’ll be crazy about London. And in the spring we’ll 
take a motor trip through England. You’ll love that 
the most of all. It’s the most beautiful country. Full 
of a marvelous peace. It’s like you, sort of.” He was 
talking faster now, and eagerly. “Darling,” he went on, 
“you know I can’t get very poetical—it make me feel 
too silly—but I really want you most frightfully. I’ll 
be able to make you happy. Will you do it? Are you 
game to try it?” His look was pleading. Eleanor 
stared at him. Her eyes were puzzled. 

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I’d like to, but I’m 
not sure I can. Anyway, I’ll need a little time to get 
used to the idea. I don’t have to tell you right this 
minute, do I?” 

“No, of course not, as long as you don’t say definitely 
that you won’t. As soon as you make up your mind 
I’ll engage passage. I’ve always hated crossing, but I 
won’t this time with you along. It’ll be wonderful. 
You love me, don’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, then, I know it’ll be all right in the end. Be¬ 
cause if you really love me, you’ll go with me. You won’t 
be able to help it. Oh, Elly, you don’t know how much 
I want you. There’s no way of letting you know, because 
you’ve never wanted anybody yourself. But you will. 
I’ll teach you. After you belong to me you’ll under¬ 
stand.” 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


305 


After she belonged to him. There it was. That was 
marriage. She would belong to him. Then she wouldn’t 
belong to herself any more. Because you can’t belong 
to yourself and to somebody else, too. Still, what he 
planned was very alluring. Europe. She’d always 
wanted to go to Europe. And with Steve, it would be 
wonderful. She’d be a fool if she didn’t do it. She 
loved him, of course she did. And she wanted to be 
with him, practically all the time. Then why didn’t she 
just say all right? She wanted to do it. But she 
didn’t. Oh, why was everything all mixed up? She’d 
have to think. 

“Steve,” she said, “you’ll have to be patient with me 
just a little while longer. I’ve tried to explain the way I 
feel to you, oh, often, and you’ve tried to understand. 
But I think there are certain things in our minds that we 
just can’t convey, no matter how desperately we try. 
Things built up from the thousands of little things that 
have happened to us all our lives, oh, I don’t know— 
like those little particles that accumulate in the sea for 
years and years, and all of a sudden it’s a coral rock. I’m 
awfully inarticulate about it, but I know what I mean, 
and I’ll have to dope it out by myself. While you’re 
here I can’t think quite straight about it, because your 
presence counts for such a lot that it makes me forget 
some of the other things.” 

“Well, then, that’s fine, because if you marry me, you’ll 
be with me all the time, and the other things will fade 
out of the picture.” He bent over and kissed her. “Oh, 
come on, dear, be a sport. Don’t think up a lot of trick 
things, just to make it harder. You really indulge your 
complexes too much.” 

“I don’t really. But I don’t want to do this unless 



306 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


I know you’ll be happy. And if I’m not happy you won’t 
be. I’ll make you miserable. I’m a selfish beast, you 
know, and I’ve done exactly what I wanted for so long 
now that I don’t know whether I can change.” 

“Darling, if you love me, you can do anything.” 

“That’s the way it ought to be, but it’s not so simple. 
Anyway, you go home now, and let me try to think it 
out for myself. Maybe in the morning, I’ll know.” 

But in the morning she didn’t, although she had stayed 
awake nearly all night trying to straighten it out in her 
mind. Of course she wanted to go. It would be a mar¬ 
velous thing. But she was afraid. She had belonged to 
herself so long that she didn’t see how she could share her¬ 
self with anybody else, no matter how much she cared 
for that person. Well, one thing was certain. She’d 
made a mess of things. This freedom she’d worked so 
hard to get had turned into a Frankenstein monster. 
She’d got her freedom, all right, and now she was im¬ 
prisoned by it. 

She couldn’t get anywhere. She made her decision 
eleven times that night. Five times she decided to go, 
and six times she decided not to. By morning she was 
so befuddled that she didn’t know what it was all about. 
She must talk to somebody. She must get another slant 
on it. Eva would be the person, of course, but Eva 
was in Washington visiting her family. Finally she went 
up to see Muriel. Muriel was sound and sensible, and 
her mind worked so simply. There were no idiotic com¬ 
plexities, no hidden strains keeping her from happiness. 
She was a completely fulfilled woman. To her the whole 
thing was simple. 

“I can’t see,” she said, “what you’re making all the 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


307 


fuss about. Either you love the man, or you don’t. 
Which is it?” 

“Oh, I love him, all right.” 

“Well, then, marry him. If it’s the physical part of it 
you’re afraid of, don’t let that worry you. Everybody 
has to go through more or less the same thing with that. 
You’re afraid of it in the beginning, and you sort of hate 
it, but after a while you get used to it.” 

“No, it isn’t that—at least that’s only a part of it. 
It’s something a lot more complicated.” 

“Well, what?” 

“I can’t make it come out of my mouth so it sounds 
sensible, but in my head it’s perfectly clear. I want to 
marry him, and I want to go away with him, and I want 
to love him, but there’s some force that’s stopping me. 
I think I must be fundamentally an alone sort of person 
—I need complete separateness more than I need any¬ 
thing else. And the consciousness of that keeps me from 
being able to go ahead. A dozen times I’ve been on the 
verge of calling him and telling him to get the passage, 
but this thing has always stopped me.” Muriel looked at 
her with exasperated eyes. 

“You get me sick,” she said. “You always were pe¬ 
culiar but I didn’t realize how much of a one you were. 
You’re not only selfish, but you’re a fool. You’re stand¬ 
ing in the way of your own happiness. Do you think you’ll 
always be satisfied to live this way? Some day you’ll 
be old, and then what? Will it be such fun to be a 
lonely old maid? Think of the future. And how about 
children? Look at the way you love Junior. If you had 
one of your own you’d love it a thousand times more. 
It’s impossible for me to tell you what that baby means. 
It grows every day. At first he didn’t seem so important 



308 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


to me, but now, I just can’t explain the feeling. He 
means more than my life.” There were tears in her 
eyes, and she was talking with real eloquence. “Why, 
the other day,” she said, “mother had him out. She 
said she’d come back at five o’clock and at five thirty 
she wasn’t here yet. Well, I went through the very tor¬ 
tures of hell. Although I kept telling myself to be 
sensible, that it was all right, something stronger kept 
saying ‘He’s killed, and she’s afraid to come home and 
tell you.’ I was sure the carriage had been hit by a car, 
or something. I was just putting on my hat and coat 
to go out and look for his mangled body, when she came 
in. That’s what a baby means.” 

“Um,” said Elly. “But why deliberately let yourself 
in for anything like that? After you have it, that’s dif¬ 
ferent. But I don’t want to care for anyone that way. 
It’s too much of a strain.” 

“Oh,” Muriel said impatiently, “what’s the use of talk¬ 
ing to you. You’re just thoroughly self-centered, that’s 
all. You have a chance for happiness and you’re afraid 
to take it, because it might prevent you from concen¬ 
trating on yourself for the rest of your life. You’ll 
regret it. Just wait and see! But don’t say I didn’t 
warn you. What an oil can you’re turning out to be!” 

Well, that was that. Muriel was right. She was 
self-centered. She was an awful oil can. Granted. But 
what was she going to do? She was no nearer a solution 
than before. She was completely adrift on a sea of in¬ 
decision. 


3 

Steve wasn’t helping her very much, either. He was 
beginning to get impatient. After all, he said, that eve- 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


309 


ning, she was making a mountain out of a molehill. If 
she loved him she’d go with him, and take a chance on 
the rest. 

“But I just can’t make up my mind,” she said. “I 
want to marry you, but I’m afraid. Steve, dear, don’t 
think I don’t realize what a pest I am, but I can’t help 
it. The idea frightens me. I don’t think I can marry 
you.” Maybe it was the notion of marriage that scared 
her, he thought. Some people are like that. The legal 
bond irked them. 

“Is it that part of it your afraid of?” he asked. “You 
know, darling, I don’t exactly know how to express this, 
but I don’t want to leave out anything. Would you 
rather—this is a hell of a thing to say, but I’ve got to 
—would you rather join me in Paris, and try me for a 
while first? I’d show you how happy you could be, and 
then we could get married before we came home. Or in 
case you didn’t want to go ahead—but you would, I 
know you would. I’d love you so much, and you’d love 
me so much!” 

“That’s just it. No, it isn’t marriage I’m afraid of. 
If I go with you at all, it will be married to you, because 
after all, that’s so much more convenient. No, it’s not 
the bonds of marriage I’m afraid of. It’s the bonds of 
love. I’m afraid I’ll grow to love you too much, and 
that I’ll lose myself in you. Lose my integrity. It isn’t 
that I want to be afraid of losing it. I know it isn’t 
worth a damn. But I’m too far gone along that path 
to be able to turn around so easily now. Must I decide 
now? Couldn’t you be patient a little while longer, and 
help me?” 

“If you really loved me,” he repeated, doggedly, “you 
would come with me. I’ve got to have you altogether, or 



310 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


not at all. This half way state of affairs was all right 
for a little while, but it can’t go on any longer. I’ve 
got to know. Listen! I’m sailing Friday on the Paris. 
This is Tuesday. That gives you just one day to make 
up your mind. I’ve taken a chance and engaged a double 
stateroom. I know a man in the French Line office, and 
he says he can dispose of the extra one if I don’t need it. 
But I will need it, won’t I? Oh, Elly, I love you. I 
love you. I love you. Why do you torture me this 
way? I shouldn’t love you, God knows; it would be 
much better for me if I didn’t. But I do. Come with 
me. Trust me to make it all right. You will be losing 
something, I know, but you’ll be getting so much more. 
You say you love me. Prove it by coming with me. I’ll 
never do a thing to make you regret it. You do want 
to come with me, don’t you?” 

“Yes, I want to.” He took her in his arms, and kissed 
her with more passion that she had ever felt from him 
before. “You must, dearest. Think of the places we’ll 
see. I know just the place for us to live in Paris. There’s 
a little apartment building on the Rue de l’Universite, 
right near the Alexander bridge, with wonderful trees in 
the court. It’ll be glorious. And think of the people 
we’ll meet! It’ll be so good for your work, too. You’ll 
be twice the person you are now, darling. I’ll be so 
proud of you, and we’ll love each other so much. Elly, 
won’t you?” 

While he spoke a series of pictures flashed across her 
mind, as they are said to cross the mind of a drowning 
person. Only, instead of her past life, it was her future 
that she saw. On the one hand the life with Steve, as he 
pictured it, crowded, glamorous, full to the brim. On the 
other, the life alone, narrow, uneventful, growing emptier 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


311 


as the years went on. How could there be any choice? 
The warmth of his voice and body close to her were 
communicating themselves to her. She was beginning 
at last to take on some of his excitement. Her mind was 
catching fire a little from the flame of his mind. The 
blaze consumed the fear. 

“All right/’ she said, excitedly, “I’ll go with you.” 

“Darling! I knew you would. I knew you’d love me 
enough. Look!” He drew an official-looking document 
from his coat pocket, and handed it to her. It was a 
marriage license. 

“Steve!” She gave a little squeal. “How did you get 
it? I thought both people had to go down and get 
sworn in, or whatever it is you do.” 

“They’re supposed to, but I know them pretty well 
down there, from the days when I used to cover City 
Hall. I never thought then that I’d want to use my pull 
for anything like this.” He kissed her. 

“But, dear,” she asked a trifle fearfully, “are you sure 
it’s legal?” He laughed. 

“Yes, you little foolish angel. Gad, I like to hear you 
ask me that.” 

“Why?” 

“Well, it shows me that you are a woman, after all. 
Wants to be sure she’s legally married. We’d better 
go down tomorrow and get it over with.” 

“No, let us wait till Thursday. If I’m sailing on the 
Paris Friday I’ll have to get some clothes.” 

“Ah, feminine again. All right. Thursday, if you 
say so. But I’d rather do it tomorrow, and be sure 
about it.” 

“Oh, you can be sure. What do you think I ought to 



312 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


do about mother? Should I tell her first, or should I 
sail and leave it for Muriel to break the sad news?” 

“Dearest, I don’t know.” 

“I feel awfully mean about it. You know, I always 
promised her that no matter what happened, I’d tell her 
before I got married. She always had a hunch I’d do 
something like this.” 

“Will she be angry because I’m not Jewish?” 

“Well, she won’t be crazy about the idea, but she 
won’t mind it as she would have five years ago. Any¬ 
way, she’ll probably be so relieved to have me married at 
all that she’ll fall on your neck in gratitude.” 

“Thanks.” She kissed him. 

“Oh, Steve, I’m so excited.” 

“Are you happy?” 

“Yes. Awfully. Are you?” 

“Yes.” He drew her into his arms. 

“We’ll do such wonderful things together, darling.” 
For a long time she lay quietly in his arms, enjoying 
the unwonted luxury of emotional excitement, untroubled 
—almost—by the stinging gadflies of her thoughts. He 
had contrived to stimulate and then to soothe her to a 
point where the gadflies ceased to buzz. But they didn’t 
disappear altogether. They just hovered quietly some¬ 
where in the back of her head, and she was subconsciously 
aware of their presence. It was that subconscious aware¬ 
ness that made her whimper a little when Steve gently 
let her go. 

“Oh, darling,” she wailed, “don’t leave me. I don’t 
want you to go.” 

“I don’t want to go, either, dear,” he said, “but I 
have to, really. There’s so much to do in these two 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


313 


days. Just think, three days from now we’ll be out on 
the high seas together, married!” 

“Married.” She echoed him. An involuntary tremor 
shook her. 

“Good night, dearest.” She clung to him. 

“Oh, I don’t want you to go.” 

“But I must. It’s after three.” 

“All right. Go ahead.” She laughed, and kissed him 
once again. Then she brought him his hat and coat and 
shoved him out the door. 

“Beat it before I drag you back again.” He kissed her 
and was gone. A second later he knocked on the door. 
She opened it. 

“I just wanted to say good night again,” he smiled. 
“Are you my own girl?” 

“Yes,” she said, and pushed him out again. His own 
girl. Not her own any more. She sat down in the 
wicker arm chair, feeling suddently tired. She tried to 
figure out some plans for the morning. Should she go 
uptown first and tell her mother? Or should she go 
shopping? She would call Muriel first thing in the morn¬ 
ing, and tell her. She’d be a great help in such an 
emergency, and she’d be glad that Elly’d come to her 
senses. Now she must get some sleep. 

4 

Sleep was impossible. She lay in bed and stared out 
the window and thought. The mood of high excitement 
gradually oozed out of her. She knew now why she’d 
been afraid to let Steve go. It was only his presence 
that had kept the buzzing gadflies away. Now they all 
came swarming back and stung with redoubled intensity. 

The room became suddenly invested with a new value 



314 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


—the room that summed up, really, all that she had 
fought and worked for, ever. It was there, alone, that 
she had come into possession of her soul. And now she 
was giving it up—leaving it behind—sailing for Europe, 
marrying. 

It was funny, now that Steve was gone, Europe didn’t 
seem quite so alluring. After all, just more places, other 
cities, with different streets and buildings. That was 
one of the things about belonging just to yourself. You 
didn’t have to go anywhere. Or do anything. You had 
wonderful moments, unspoiled by anything. It occurred 
to her that whatever moments of absolutely unalloyed 
beauty and happiness she had ever known, had been in 
solitude—solitude of body and spirit. 

She realized that once married, once a part of Steve’s 
life, this would be gone. You simply couldn’t have both 
yourself and love. It was paradoxical. Love meant 
giving, giving yourself all the time. Of course, in ex¬ 
change for what you gave of yourself, you got a lot of 
somebody else. But it wasn’t the same. 

A terrible hand clutched at her heart. She was hot 
and cold in turns, and her teeth were chattering. What 
had she done! She felt exactly the way she had felt 
last summer at the beach, when in a gay mood she had 
climbed up on a high spring board, meaning to dive. 
When she had got out to the edge she couldn’t dive. She 
was rooted there. She peered into the blackness of the 
water and simply couldn’t move. She looked around. 
People were watching her. If she didn’t dive they would 
laugh at her, say she was a coward. Well, she guessed 
she was. That kind of a coward. She didn’t have the 
courage to dive into that water. But she did have the 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


315 


courage to let people laugh at her, the courage to appear 
a bit ridiculous. That wasn’t easy. 

Now she had climed up on another springboard, and as 
she looked into the water she knew, just as surely as 
she had known last summer, that she couldn’t dive in. 
She didn’t have the courage. Of course, all girls were 
scary just before they were married, but this was dif¬ 
ferent. She wasn’t ready to lose what she would lose, 
even to gain all she would gain. It would be hard to 
make people believe that. Funny, men did it all the 
time, and people understood it. But they’d never believe 
that a girl could care for a man a lot, and still not marry 
him because there was something—something so impos¬ 
sible to explain—she wanted more. 

Looking at it now, an hour after he had left her, she 
couldn’t imagine what had ever made her say she’d do it. 
She knew with an absolute certainty that she couldn’t. 
This wasn’t just another vacillation, either. It was 
definite. She couldn’t give herself to anyone now, no 
matter what effect it might have on her future. 

It wasn’t easy. It was terrifically hard. She didn’t 
want to lose him altogether, and she knew that if she let 
him go now it would mean losing him forever. She 
wouldn’t blame him. She’d treated him abominably. 
He was too honorable, too, he’d never forgive her for 
breaking a promise. He wouldn’t see that there was a 
certain kind of courage in that, that it was awfully hard. 
He would just see that she had gone back on her word, 
and he would hate her. 

She’d be unhappy. She thought of all the things her 
sister had told her. The future. A lonely old age. 
Nothing to call her own. Nothing but her own integrity. 
Why should that mean so much to her? It was so con- 



316 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


ceited, and so utterly selfish! But she couldn’t help it. 
It wasn’t a thing you could argue about. It just was. 
Maybe some time she’d be different. But now she was 
like this. She was deliberately throwing away her 
chances of happiness. Wantonly, for an idea. She knew 
it, and she didn’t care—much. She’d rather be free than 
happy. Free. But was she free? Could you call your¬ 
self free when you were a slave to an idea? Was any¬ 
body ever free? If you were free of one thing, then 
weren’t you a prisoner to something else? 

She looked ahead and saw weeks of pain and loneli¬ 
ness. She’d miss him frightfully. She’d regret her de¬ 
cision a thousand times. But she knew it was the right 
one. She wasn’t ready for the other thing yet. She had 
to be footloose, spiritually as well as actually. There’d 
be a penalty, of course. There always is, to everything. 
For everything you get, you pay. She was willing to 
pay with loneliness and suffering. Maybe she’d want the 
other later, but she didn’t want it now. She’d have to 
work the thing out alone. In the final analysis you were 
thrown upon yourself. If you were like her you were, 
anyway. 

She lay awake most of the night, thinking. The in¬ 
decision was gone, and she was quite calm and sure of 
herself. Unhappy, but certain. Whatever it would cost 
her, she was going the way she should go. In the morning 
she wrote him a note. It was a hard thing to do. Noth¬ 
ing could sound right, nothing she could say could make 
her appear anything but contemptible, and an idiot. But 
she had to write it. She couldn’t trust herself to see him 
again. She might not have the courage that way. She 
made a dozen starts, and finally evolved something pre¬ 
sentable : 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


317 


“My dear” \she wrote ], “I know you’ll hate me for 
being a quitter, and you have every right to hate me. 

I am a quitter, and I hate myself. But 1 just can’t go 
through with it. I want to, but 1 can’t. We’d both be 
miserable if I did, I’m simply paralyzed, that’s all. And 
I know you won’t believe me, but 1 have to say it, any¬ 
way. I love you. Only not enough, 1 guess. I suppose 
you’ll say not enough is not at all. And you’ll be right. 
You’re always right. And I’m quite wrong, but it can’t 
be helped. This is the way it had to be. After you come 
back, maybe we can be friends again.” 

She knew that was impossible, that she was cutting 
him off from her forever, but she had to put it in, be¬ 
cause that was the way she felt. She gave the letter to 
a messenger boy, early in the morning. 

“Be sure to deliver it only to this person,” she told 
him, “and come back here after he’s got it. Wait and 
see if there’s an answer. But come back, anyway, even 
if there isn’t.” At ten o’clock the boy came back. She 
knew what he would say. 

“There ain’t no answer,” he told her. 

“Did you give it straight to Mr. Sayre?” 

“Yeh, an’ I ast him was there any answer an’ he sez 
no.” She gave him a coin and let him go. 

That was that. There wouldn’t be any answer, either. 
She was dead certain of that. 

She got through the next two days somehow. Already 
the pain of being without him was pretty bad. She stayed 
away from the place as much as possible. She didn’t 
even sleep there. The floor was being varnished, she 
told Muriel, and asked if she might sleep on the couch in 
the living room Wednesday and Thursday nights. She 



318 


WHO WOULD BE FREE 


managed to behave quite admirably, and Irving told 
Muriel he didn’t think she was so crazy any more. 

5 

On Friday at noon the Paris sailed. At two o’clock 
she called up the Strauss office and asked for Mr. Sayre. 
The operator told her he had sailed for Europe. She 
couldn’t have said why she did that. There wasn’t any 
doubt in her mind that he had gone. But, somehow, 
she had to hear it officially before she could go back into 
the place. It would hurt so much up there. 

She ate dinner alone. There were plenty of people 
she could have eaten with, but she wanted to be lonely. 
She wanted to bite on the sore tooth, to feel how it would 
be to always be alone. After dinner she walked slowly 
to the place. She looked rather eagerly in the letter¬ 
box. Not that she expected anything, but she had to 
look just the same. 

The room was very still. It semed a little strange, 
after being away for two days. She was conscious of a 
feeling about it something like the feeling that had pos¬ 
sessed her when she first came to it. Her spirit was 
very sore and this was a healing place. She sat in her 
wicker armchair for a long, long time, looking at his 
picture on the desk. Suddenly she spoke aloud. 

“Do you know,” she said, “I don’t believe I’ll ever 
see you again. And I love you, really.” Her eyes filled 
with tears. She felt very sorry for herself. It was a 
hard thing she had done. Suddenly she was thinking 
of Ted. Those words she had spoken aloud, hadn’t she 
said them once before, about him? And she had lost 
him, and she had wanted to die. But after a while she 
had recovered. She would always recover. This would 



WHO WOULD BE FREE 


319 


hurt for a while, too, but afterward it would stop, and 
she would belong only to herself again. 

The door, which was a little warped, creaked on its 
hinges. It hadn’t been quite shut when she came in. 
She got up, opened it wide, and slammed it loudly. She 
sat down in her armchair again, sighing. The peace that 
had once been so palpable a part of the room slowly 
gathered again and enveloped her. She and peace were 
in that room, and the rest of the world was shut outside. 


The End 














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